A Study of Relations
by charlie1902
Summary: Sherlock is a teen in need of guidance. Doctor Watson is an army vet in need of a future. Not Slash.
1. Sherlock & Mycroft

**Title:** A Study of Relations

**Author:** charlie1902

**Fandom:** Sherlock (BBC)

**Genre: **AU, Friendship, Humour, Hurt/Comfort,

**Rating: **T

**Warning: **Evil deeds are discussed, rude words are said but nothing is explicit

**Spoilers: **Just the basics

**Summery:** AU. Sherlock is a teen in need of guidance. Doctor Watson is an army vet in need of a future. Not Slash.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the characters you recognise but do own the ones you don't. This is my way of loving them.

Chapter One

Sherlock & Mycroft

Lord and Lady Holmes were rich, powerful and the devoted parents of two boys. They gave their sons everything they needed and a lot of what they wanted. The elder, Mycroft, was the perfect son: studios, respectful, responsible and reserved. He was reliable in a way his younger brother would never be. Somehow Sherlock managed to be almost the complete opposite; inquisitive, irrational and arrogant and he had a need for praise and attention (which his parents put down to being younger by seven years) and yet they were so similar: intelligent, logical, decisive and observant.

While Lord Holmes regularly wished Sherlock was more norm … dependable like Mycroft, Lady Holmes often regretted how fast her older son had grown up.

When it came to educating their sons Lord and Lady Holmes spared no expense. Mycroft was top of every class in the very best school and destined for every success. He easily passed every exam but instead of rousing jealousy from his classmates he invoked admiration. Even from a young age he was gracious and unassuming, slow to anger and preferred to remain in the background. He had his critiques of course; a teacher who thought he was manipulative and an ex-girlfriend who accused him of being nonchalant. Sherlock complained repeatedly that his older brother was over-bearing.

The youngest Holmes moved from one school to another, never settling. By the age of eight his parents had given up on formal education for him choosing instead to hire a personal tutor the lack of other children suiting their less-than sociable son. The difficulty was trying to keep them: most barely lasted a semester. Sherlock had a fascination with the morbid that many found nauseating (much to his delight). His intelligence often meant he could run rings around them and he was always compelled to point out their flaws and mistakes. Most of them thought he was showing off but his family knew he was genuinely surprised at how oblivious they were. His irrepressible quest for knowledge (and poor impulse control) led to him questioning them at any hour. He would text them throughout the night as his mind flittered from one subject to another. He once told his mother he was unable to sleep because his brain refused to stop thinking.

As he turned thirteen he tried to persuade his parents he could teach himself. A notion even his devoted mother found scary. She worried for his health: mental and physical. He spent all his time alone or with adults, he rarely ate or slept and shared none of the interests boys his age should.

In the following two years Lady Holmes aged dramatically with the worry and stress of his antics. That concerned her husband and eldest son and created tension between them and the youngest. Lord Holmes firstly tried talking to him, then shouting at him and had even threatened to cut him off financially. Mycroft had taken the more extreme measure of hiring men to spy on him and instructed them to intersect him as he tried to buy drugs or perform other reckless acts. Lady Holmes had gently asked him to take better care of himself but even all of that only curbed his careless behaviour for a short time. At just fifteen he seemed to be on the road to calamity.

Then he met a man who had an unlikely influence on him.

It was the beginning of summer 2010; Sherlock was supposed to start work on his GCSE's. The teenager had a new tutor he was fiendishly trying to scare off; bored with a syllabus he found irrelevant. Mycroft at twenty-two was expected to receive near-perfect results from a Politics and Business Masters at Cambridge University. He was readying himself to start work in London in a most prestigious position (for his age) in the British Government. Lady Holmes had allowed herself to be talked into taking a holiday at a world-renowned health spa in the states and Lord Holmes was out in India as a representative for his country.

The two men Mycroft employed to follow Sherlock lost him and mere hours later each of the family received a phone call from the police; Sherlock had been the innocent bystander to a drug gang feud and was lying in the hospital with serious injuries. Mycroft quickly made his way to the hospital while their parents organised flights home.

Sitting by his bedside Mycroft noted the traces of white powder on Sherlock's fingers. He wiped them away quickly and got up to pace the room a few times. He picked up the doctors chart on his brother to read; but it merely confirmed what he had already be told: dislocated left shoulder, bullet through where his appendix had been removed just a year ago, bullet through the muscle of his right arm, concussion, a fractured knee and a lumbar disc hernation.

He couldn't help but picture how each injury probably occurred and was exasperated at his brother. Everything would heal quickly except for the injury to his back, which could keep him confined to his bed for a number of weeks. Mycroft realised this would drive his brother to complete insanity unless action was taken. Sitting down again Mycroft strived to come up with a plan of action to keep him safe from himself.

A few hours later Sherlock stirred, shifting in his bed as he became aware of the pain from his injuries. Mycroft stayed silent for a moment to give his sibling a chance to analyst and process each pain sensation.

"Sherlock do you need more pain relief?"

"I can handle it," was the stubborn reply,

"That wasn't what I asked,"

"No! I'm fine! Everything is fine!"

"You sound irritated brother are you sure . . . "

"I'm FINE!"

"Alright then – you won't mind if I get a doctor to confirm your diagnosis?"

"…" Mycroft couldn't quite hear Sherlock's mumbled response but heard enough to realise he didn't want too. He got up from his chair and said, as he entered the hallway to look for a doctor,

"Do try to keep your vulgar language to yourself Sherlock you have a roommate."

Though the family had extensive private health care the ambulance had driven Sherlock to the nearest hospital which happened to be run by the National Health Service. The doctors had already decided Sherlock wouldn't be able to be moved for a few days. The standard room he was in had two beds that were separated by an all-grey curtain on rails. Beside each bed was a white cabinet and chair. The walls were also white and the only note-worthy object in the room was a TV high up on the opposite wall (this one happened to be out of order). A far cry from the elaborately decorated single rooms found in private facilities.

Mycroft soon returned with a doctor and after a brief examination Sherlock was given more pain relief which made him relax and then scowl. The greying doctor explained each of Sherlock's injuries, what they were doing about them and any future consequences. He spoke clearly and kindly to Sherlock who had already inferred much of what was said.

"Do you have any questions?" the old doctor asked,

"Sherlock remember your manners!" Mycroft prompted as the teen just shook his head,

"No … thank you,"

"Oh you are very welcome," the doctor seemed surprised by Sherlock's gratitude (forced as it was) – an insight into the behaviour of his usual patients Mycroft and Sherlock surmised.

"And when do you expect your parents to arrive?"

"Our father will be here tomorrow morning, our mother a little later,"

"Good a young boy needs his family in these circumstances." The doctor seem to drift off in his own thoughts,

"Quite, thank you for your help," Mycroft's tone was dismissive,

"Yes, yes I must be off now but if you need anything press that button and a nurse will be right along,"

"Thank you again," Mycroft walked him to the door,

"Right well, bye,"

"Ug could you have kissed his arse any more?" Sherlock said as he shifted uncomfortably in his bed. There was a soft giggle from the bed alongside his that both brothers ignored.

"What happened Sherlock? The police told me the deceased bodies of two well-known drug-dealers were found near where you were picked up. They happen to think you were innocently caught in the cross fire between two rival gangs." Mycroft stood over Sherlock and frowned,

"What do you think?" the teen smirked up at his brother,

"I think you went looking for trouble," Mycroft answered calmly,

"I invited them both to meet me there – I wanted to get the best deal," Sherlock closed his eyes and grinned as his brother erupted in anger; Mycroft kept his cool so well Sherlock liked nothing more than to provoke him.

Mycroft ranted about his recklessness, the significance of starting a gang war and the consequences of taking drugs for a full minute before collecting himself and calming down.

"And if you had been killed what then?"

"Then I would have gone out with a bang!" Sherlock said with a straight face,

"And left mother, father and I distraught at your passing,"

"Oh Mycroft I didn't know you cared," Sherlock sneered and moved his uninjured arm to lie across his face. Mycroft recognised this as a sign he wanted to distance himself from the conversation because he was feeling emotions he wasn't sure how to deal with.

"These painkillers are stifling my thinking and crippling my ability to speak to you," Sherlock said suddenly,

"Rather that than crippling you with pain," Mycroft replied softly,

"I should be the judge of that!" Sherlock shouted jerking upwards and then hissing as pain hit.

"Don't move around so much and not until you reach eighteen," Mycroft ordered and helped Sherlock settle gently back into the bedding,

"I noticed, despite my handicap, I'm not in the children's ward?" Sherlock seemed genuinely surprised,

"I declined to inflict you on already poorly children," and those wards were incredibly depressing and noisy.

"So thoughtful," Sherlock snarled,

The siblings both paused to think back on what had been said. Each had cause to regret what they had said but neither was willing to apologise.

"How do you do it?" Sherlock quietly asked,

"What?" Mycroft's query was slow and quiet, worn from his worry.

"Act so normal; I know you think like me, that you observe as I do and make the same logical deductions,"

"I do but I use my observations instead of merely announcing them and exasperating everyone around me."

Sherlock sighed,

"Why should I conform to other peoples limitations?"

"Because otherwise you will be ridiculed and end up alone," Sherlock remained quiet at that, sullen and achy and not sure that would be such a bad thing. He got bored not lonely.

Eventually Mycroft stood,

"I need to step out for lunch, I imagine yours will be arriving soon please try to act cordially to the staff here."

Still Sherlock said nothing and Mycroft left with a sigh.

TBC


	2. The Parents and Watson Siblings

Chapter Two

The Parents and Watson Siblings

"Your brother is a right pompous git!" a scratchy voice commented from behind the curtain. There was a faint grunt and then it rattled open. Sherlock got his first look at his roommate and his brain immediately began processing what his eyes saw:

Shakiness, sweating (caused by a mild fever) and rapid blinking (indicative of a headache) all signs of **alcohol withdrawal**

Broken knuckles, bruised cheekbone and red lines around the wrists (from handcuffs) definitely a **provoked response **(rather than an ordinary alcohol induced fight)

"Sherlock, right?"

"Yes and you are?"

"Harry!" a man greeted from their doorway. Sherlock noted their similar facial bone structure and decided uncertainly that they were siblings. He was thrown by more obvious differences; Harry's hair was long and thin, like her physical appearance and coloured black; compared to this mans sandy brown, slightly fluffy and very short hair and shorter, bulkier frame.

"Try not annoy your roommate," their guest said quietly. Sherlock ascertained from his posture he was a soldier, a crutch spoke of a recent injury almost certainly from active service.

"I was just introducing myself John," Harry answered with a huff.

At that point a young and fresh-faced doctor arrived,

"Ah you must be here for Harriet?"

"Harry if you please doctor?" she requested firmly,

"My apologies, Harry,"

"I'm her brother Doctor John Watson; can you tell me who Harry has been fighting with this time?"

"WHO said I was fighting?" the angry and sudden shout from the near-by bed made Sherlock flinch and look away from where he had been curiously watching. He was unused to such venom and the shock disrupted his usual elation at being correct. The two doctors didn't react at all.

"You drank enough to need your stomach pumped and you've got a broken cheek bone and broken knuckles; we've been here before," John answered calmly,

"Very good deduction skills," Sherlock praised without looking up then he added his own conclusions,

"Judging from the angle of bruising to the left cheek someone left-handed and over six feet tall. The fact that this one punch broke the cheekbone indicates someone strong: male. The faded make-up suggests a night out and therefore a suitor or date however the cuff marks signify this fight resulted in Harry's persecution so most likely a nightclub bouncer."

"The kid's right – bastard tried to kick me out so I offered to give him a . . ."

John quickly interrupted,

"That was amazing," John hurriedly praised Sherlock and then waved to the doctor to move inside the room. John limped after him; Sherlock watched his progress with curiosity. When both doctors were by Harry's bedside her brother closed the curtain. Not that it made any difference; Sherlock could still hear what was being said. He thought all this was much less boring than having a private room in some stuffy private place with a smarmy doctor and chirpy nurses.

"Do you have to be so crude?" John kept his voice low but Harry still asked him to be quieter,

"Can it Johnny, I gotta headache anyway kids' old enough to be getting 'em 'imself, you certainly were," Sherlock was uncertain as to what they were referring which annoyed him,

"That's from alcohol withdrawal and he is not an adult yet – doctor why is he in this ward?"

"It was what the boy's brother wanted,"

Listening carefully to the conversation Sherlock attempted to ascertain the different emotions: unsophisticated rudeness from Harry and a strange sort of brotherly domineering from her brother. He was interested because it all seemed very different from how his own brother behaved towards him and maybe he would work out what they had been talking about.

"As you guessed your sister needed her stomach pumped for alcohol abuse and required treatment for a broken cheekbone. She has light bruising around her wrist and a small cut on her face."

Mycroft returned at that point and was surprised to see his aloof brother eagerly listening in to the conversation, not even noticing his arrival.

"I take it when you referred to yourself as doctor you meant . . ." _Interest_.

"MD, yes I worked for the army for a short time," Mycroft stood in the doorway, listened to the conversation and wondered.

"You haven't been able to convince your sister of the dangers of drinking?" _Slightly patronising_.

"Haven't been able to convince my sister of anything for a long time," _Annoyance or resentment maybe_.

"I'm right here," _Humour_ from Harry but why?

"There is a treatment facility not far which I think could really help." _Sceptical_.

"Unless it's NHS it's really not affordable," John said _confidently with_ _slight hints of shame_.

"Wouldn't go anyway – I like getting drunk," _Childish petulance_, which Sherlock easily related too especially since the two doctors continued to speak over her.

"Thank you for looking after my sister doctor," _Gratitude_ but that was obvious from his words.

"I have to go now Harry, I'll be back tomorrow." _Regret_.

"Where you going?" _Confusion_.

"I have a job interview in a couple of hours." _Hopeful desperation_.

"Like any hospital is gonna take on a cripple," hostile words but probably accurate, _invocative_: the prelude to an argument . . .

"Please don't Harry!" _Weary_ … wait where was the expected angry response?

"Whatever. I'll be outta here and ya hair in a little while." _Disinterest_ now.

"I'll be back soon Harry, please stay here and let the doctor's look after you?" Harry didn't answer and John sighed softly.

Mycroft moved over to his brother's bedside just as Doctor Watson stepped past the curtain. The visiting doctor didn't acknowledge either Holmes brother, just limped quickly out the room.

"Thought you would have gone by now," Sherlock said returning his attention to his brother,

"I said I would return – I worry for you,"

"You mean you worry about what trouble I could get into!"

"That is a consideration but it is not my primary concern brother,"

Sherlock looked at his brother sceptically from under his curly hair but remained silent. Mycroft sat in the chair and waited in silence as his brother slowly fell asleep. When he was sure Sherlock was deeply asleep Mycroft held his hand reassuring himself: that his brother was alive, that he hadn't failed him.

For long hours during that day Sherlock slept and Mycroft watched over him. Occasionally Harry muttered under her breath about being bored, missing Clara but mostly about wanting a drink. Occasionally she would shout; confused about where she was and why she was there. A nurse would quickly arrive to sooth her. After a particular vulgar outburst the irritated Lord had asked for another room but was told none were available. Sherlock may be oh so brilliant but the teen was worryingly naïve. Thankfully he slept through the worst outbursts.

Mycroft phoned his colleagues a few times and received a couple of phone calls from his mother and father as they fretted several thousand feet in the air on their separate journeys home. Sherlock, awake when their mother called for a third time, was able to speak to her. Her worry shamed him in a way his brother's couldn't and he ended up very red-faced by the time he hung up. Aware, as ever, to his brother's struggle with emotions, Mycroft didn't comment and Sherlock soon fell back to sleep.

The family doctor arrived and woke him briefly to examine him. This rather pompous doctor talked to his current doctor and read his patient notes. He was forced rather reluctantly to conclude the care was adequate and staying put really was the best course of action. Sherlock tried to mock him (as he always did) but was unable to concentrate and soon fell back to sleep.

Per the doctors instructions (made with Mycroft's guidance) Sherlock was plied with sedatives as well as strong painkillers. They keep him asleep and malleable and _still_ during the long hours of the night. Mycroft sat with him for the duration – he had been very firm with the staff 'visiting hours did not apply to Lords!' It was one of the few times he had been grateful for his family's peerage.

Come mid morning Sherlock finally woke to a fuzzy head and bleary eyes. From the length of time it took to rouse he knew he had not been given just regular painkillers. When his head cleared enough to take in his brothers smirking face he knew who was behind it.

"Must you always interfere in my life!" he ranted, bashing his good arm against the bed.

"I don't know what you mean, dear brother, please calm yourself father will be here shortly."

"He didn't have to come back,"

"But how could he stay when his youngest boy lay in a hospital with bullet holes and broken bones?"

"You're acting like I intentionally got hurt!"

"Perhaps not intentionally but certainly recklessly,"

Sherlock pouted and stayed silent.

"And you wonder why I treat you like a child," Mycroft scorned, gently stretching as he stood. When Sherlock still didn't say anything Mycroft picked up his briefcase. He had tried to read some important files while watching over his brother but found himself unable to focus.

"I must return these to the office; father will be here in less than an hour I trust you won't need anything in the meantime?" Mycroft's brother merely huffed and the young man shook his head as he left his brother alone … with the exception of his now snoring roommate.

Shortly afterwards rapid pain pounded throughout the fifteen year olds body and he wished suddenly for his brother to come back. He panted through the pain for a couple of minutes and after it had abated he chided himself for acting like a baby. Less than five minutes later though the pain returned and so on for over half an hour at which point he couldn't take it anymore and pressed the call button.

A nurse arrived promptly as the pain hit again and Sherlock found he was unable to focus enough to make his usual observations,

"Something … anything … the pain!" he panted,

"Alright your notes say you can have a little; don't want a young thing like you getting all addicted do we? It will work straight away … there you are then," she rubbed his arm soothingly for the few moments it took the medication to work. As she noted the dosage on his chart the nurse casually asked,

"Where's your big brother gone then?" Sherlock saw classic signs of physical attraction and frowned,

"Back at work,"

"Oh but he was here all night – seems to me it's rare to find such devotion in siblings." She replied smitten,

"Yes well . . ." Sherlock was interrupted from whatever disparaging remarks he might have made as his father was led into the room by a very senior member of the hospital management. The nurse fled,

"As you can see Lord Holmes we have been taking very good care of your son, his brother demanded nothing less than our best of … everything." The bald man had tired eyes but they still sparkled with compassion.

"Father I'm sorry you were called away from . . ."

"Nonsense boy – sometimes your actions drive me to say things without thinking but I'll always be at your side when you need me,"

Sherlock fidgeted uncomfortably and was reminded by the doctor to stay still. Lord Holmes forced himself not to sigh,

"Mycroft returned to his office?"

"Just an hour ago,"

"Neither he nor the police were very specific when they explained what happened?" Lord Holmes prodded,

"…"

"Will you be alright now?" the management doctor was clearly impatient with the family dialogue,

"Yes thank you doctor,"

"Good day," one last smile and nod and he was gone.

"…"

"Sherlock?"

"I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time," Sherlock said evasively,

"Your brother and the police said much the same thing," the teen remained silent,

"Alright I suppose I'm better off not knowing …" Lord Holmes waited for his son to speak again but was left wanting,

"Just . . . if you need something . . . if you're in trouble . . . I'm here,"

"I'm not daddy I promise,"

Lord Holmes sat in the chair only recently by his elder son and pushed Sherlock's hair off his forehead,

"You make people around you so mad my boy . . ." Sherlock went to interrupt but his father hushed him and caressed his cheek,

"Mad with worry," Lord Holmes didn't have the same insight into his son as Mycroft or his mother did but he could see Sherlock was uncomfortable with such a straightforward declaration of his love, so he lightened the moment,

"Me, your mother and Mycroft at any rate – the rest you just send nuts!"

Sherlock grinned in appreciation and stated,

"I am reasonably sure most were crazy before they even met me! Do you remember Ms Vann? And her attempt to climb the willow tree one spring afternoon?"

"Oh yes – she swore there was a cat up there," Father and son grinned and the rest of the morning passed with sounds of mirth.

Lunch was brought to both men with an apology to its sub-standard quality compared to what they must be used to. The lunch lady actually curtsied to the elder Lord! Miraculously the pair held off laughing until she had left which was just as Mycroft entered. The banter swiftly turned to light-hearted disparaging remarks about the talents of cooking of all three as they shared a rare good hospital meal.

Mycroft was happy to see the delight on his usually stoic father and discontented brother despite the initial stirrings of jealousy. It seemed he was never enough for his brother any more – his time away at university distancing them more than just physically.

It was at that point Doctor John Watson limped into the room again. Sherlock had almost forgotten his roommate and her brother.

"Sorry to interrupt – I'll just collate my sister and get out your way." He said faintly nervous at the presence of three obvious social elites.

"I'm sorry I didn't even realise my son was sharing the room," it might have been dismissive but for an easy smile.

"Father this is Doctor John Watson and his sister Harriet, Harry," Sherlock introduced,

"Pleased to meet you," John stepped forward to shake hands with the recognisable gentleman.

"Doctor Watson, Ms Harry this is my father Lord Holmes and brother Lord Holmes,"

"Sherlock!" Both men chided him exactly the same way so the adolescent rolled his eyes,

"Teenagers," laughed Harry stepping out from behind the curtain dressed in a skin-tight, one-shoulder black top and black jean mini skirt. Sherlock and Mycroft were the only two to notice the splash of blood against the black outfit. Their father was too busy maintaining eye contact and John was trying to avoid seeing all the flesh her outfit revealed,

"My goodness are you sure you're ready to leave?" asked Lord Holmes (the elder) at the sight of her bruised face forgetting he still had not given his name.

"This? Ha this is nothing! I did worse than this to ma lil' bro here when he broke my Barbie," she grinned enjoying the sudden discomforted atmosphere.

"Have you got everything Harry?" John seemed impatient to leave.

Before she could answer the door swung open and Lady Holmes swept in,

"Oh Sherlock!" she said and rushed to his bedside – husband barely moving out her way in time. Plates, bowls and trays were moved to the floor before they fell there.

"Mummy I'm fine, the doctors, Mycroft and even my roommate and her brother have all seen to that," he said rolling his eyes,

"Me? What have I done?" Doctor Watson half-asked in surprise,

"You surprised me," was all he said as if that was enough and for his family it was,

"Thank you," Lady Holmes said sincerely.

"Oh well err, your welcome," he said wondering if it was so rare for someone to surprise the teen.

"So bro where abouts do you live now?" Harry had, had about all she could take of family dramatics.

"Harry I'm unemployed and . . ." John spoke slowly, embarrassed again, Sherlock noted,

"Ha I knew you wouldn't get that job, surprised anyone is hiring these days," Harry interrupted, mortifying her brother (as per her role as older sister).

"And live in a one-bed high-rise flat . . ." he trailed off self-conscious of having such a personal conversation in front of the rich and prominent family.

"Is that all your army pension pays for?"

"In London? Yes!"

"Perhaps I have a solution?" Mycroft interjected smoothly. Lady Holmes had been … cooing over her youngest son but turned as her eldest spoke,

"My brother will need a personal doctor for the next six months at least so the doctor's here tell me and you, as an MD, would be more than suitable. My brother has shown more responsiveness to you than even our family doctor. Which means you will probably have more luck in getting him to comply with medical advice."

John was confused: why, if they already had a personal doctor, would they need him?

"He wants you to babysit me because I am incapable of looking after myself and ignore our current doctor," despite Sherlock's petulant tone he didn't look as unhappy at the request as his family expected.

Lady Holmes put aside her worry for her injured son and focused on this man, this doctor, her adult son was suggesting they hire. She took in the crutch, the sleep-deprived eyes that seemed too old and instinctively wanted to help. As he backed away from what came across as charity she tried to work out how to convince him. Luckily her clever eldest had all that worked out,

"Your sister could move into your current flat while you stay with us, we would pay for the treatment for her as well as a good salary for yourself but, believe me when I say, looking after my brother you will earn every penny."

Still the proud soldier hesitated, until the dismay of his sister literally forced his hand,

"Forget it Johnny we don't need no charity from rich folk!" she stalked out the room to the surprise of the Holmes family, John quickly following,

"We? Harry? We?" he questioned as angry as he ever got.

"Yea I'll move in wit you and it'll be good, fine you'll see,"

"No, no I don't think I will," John said softly but firmly and pulled his resisting sister into an empty stock closet.

"You gonna see me homeless Johnny?" Harry seemed to have forgotten she had never told John where she was staying and that she had repeatedly turned down his offer to find a place together.

"Do you remember four years ago Harry?" John's question was quiet but effective – Harry backed off physically and emotionally, moving further into the tiny room,

"Don't Johnny,"

"You and Clara about to get married? Thinking of starting a family?"

"Yea well that was then,"

"And the only thing that's different now is your drinking habit,"

"Shut up! And I got no job now!"

"Don't you remember being happy? Don't you want that again?" there was a pause as Harry was forced to think about what her brother had said.

"Sometimes," she whispered,

"This is our chance! Your chance! Please Harry if not for yourself do it for me and Clara? I'm going grey with worry!" John grabbed her hand and held it, pleading for understanding and hoping she would sort her life out.

"S'not right needing a handout from some tof family,"

"It's a not a handout, it's a job . . ."

"Judging by that kid not an easy one," Harry interrupted,

"A job, a hand up rather than a hand out,"

"If I do this, if I can get better . . . do you think Clara would take me back? It wouldn't be worth it if she doesn't …" John could hear the desperate longing in his sisters' voice and it made his heart ache,

"I don't know Harry she still has feelings for you but you messed up badly,"

"Would you talk to her?"

"I'll take this job, you start that treatment and I'll try to talk to Clara," John organised.

"She liked you, when we argued that one last time she said you were the best part about me,"

"Is that why you shut me out when I found you?"

"Partly, you were just back from that god-forsaken country and managed to be less messed up after being shot and blown up than I was after I s…screwed … u…up," Harry was crying now, shuddering with the force of her emotions John was unsure of how to comfort her. In the end he simply held her.

When she had calmed down her eyes were puffy but dry and John led her back to her room. Lord Holmes and his eldest son had disappeared but Lady Holmes was still by her son's bedside. Harry disappeared behind the curtain to gather her meagre belongings and John hovered by the end of Sherlock's bed uncertain of how to proceed,

"I would be very grateful for the opportunity …" he trailed off as she handed him a business card.

"Come to this address first thing next Wednesday – if your sister lets her doctor know she would like to go ahead my husband will make all the arrangements.

"Thank you very much,"

"Don't thank me yet," she said with a smile – Sherlock was grinning too but his smile didn't seem as reassuring. John half reconsidered as he followed his sister – he didn't know anything about this family. Harry had finished packing and was leaning against the bed,

"Got everything?" he asked rather foolishly,

"I'm not sure I can do this." She lent against the bed rubbing a hand against her bruised cheek,

"Sure you can," John took both her hands in his own,

"It's too hard," She whispered and tried to pull away,

"I believe you can do it. You need to do it!" John counted grasping one of her arms to try and invoke courage and belief. To Sherlock and his mother it sounded as though John needed his sister to be ok more than she did.

"Guess I gotta try." She said looking at the floor,

"I'll go tell the doctor then," she said and paused as if waiting for an interruption to stop her.

"Ok I'll take this and meet you by the entrance," John motioned to her small plastic bag. She left and John, keeping his back to the other room inhabitants, pushed the curtain closed and headed to the door. Sherlock suddenly said him,

"You don't really think she can do it,"

John whirled around in the doorway,

"I forgot you were here," he mumbled tightening his grip on the plastic bag ignoring the comment,

"No you didn't!" Sherlock countered easily,

"True, but I thought you would have enough manners not to listen in," Sherlock laughed short, sharp and unexpectedly but John caught sight of Lady Holmes and felt anxious about his new job,

"Don't look so worried my son is a handful but you seem to have a handle on him," she praised, Sherlock stopped smiling and started scowling at her words,

"I'm not a baby mummy,"

"I know dear but you do act like one occasionally," she patted the bed covers gently which didn't help (although that was an improvement on patting his head so he stayed quiet about it).

"I should go, I'll see you on Wednesday morning," he said and held up the hand with the plastic bag and business card in it – the gesture was cut short by a sudden pain in that shoulder. John grimaced and cradled that arm with the other one (which still held his crutch)

"Goodness are you alright?" Lady Holmes stood up and moved to his side,

"Do you need a doctor yourself?" she looked down the corridor and John worried again about his job,

"I'm fine, just phantom pain from old injuries,"

"War injuries?" she asked pulling together the little she knew about him to formulate a hypothesis – it seemed to be a family trait,

"Yes ma'am," he flexed his arm as if to prove it was fine,

"But you're just a boy!" she protested upset,

"I'm twenty-six!" he proclaimed,

"And that is a boy to me!" she said daring him to comment on her age,

"I really must be going now," he backed away and eased out the room.

"He doesn't know how to take us," Sherlock crowed cheerful once more. Lady Holmes shook her head at her ever-changeable son. Soon the other two members of their small, tight-knit family returned and tried to get comfortable in the room; Mother still in the chair, father leaning by the door and elder brother by the end of the bed, younger brother wriggling around in the bed. When Sherlock noticed his family settling he protested,

"You're not all staying are you?"

"Of course we are baby," his mother replied slightly hurt and confused as to why he would think otherwise and wondered,

"I thought someone had been with you since . . ."

"Yes, yes, Mycroft and then daddy but I don't see why! In a little while, despite it only being two in the afternoon, I'll be unconscious from all the damn drugs Mycroft instructed those doctor's to force-drip me!" the teen got himself all worked up but all his mother said was,

"He's a good big brother," Sherlock huffed having expected some manner of reprimand to fall on his faultless brother for the needless drugging.

"Thank you mummy – I do try hard," Mycroft said with the implication that Sherlock made the task more difficult (which of course he did). The teenager rolled his eyes and pretended to gag. His family laughed and his animations soon exhausted him. As predicted he soon fell asleep.

Time passed; porters came in and stripped Harry's bed ready for the next patient, Sherlock was given another dose of pain medication, the management doctor dropped in, dinner was brought for the three of them and all the while Lady Holmes interrogated her eldest son over what had really happened. Using his considerable intellect, Mycroft evaded the most unsettling aspects of events while avoiding lying. It was an early insight into the great politician he would no doubt be.

Hour's later Sherlock was disturbed by a nightmare but his mother gently soothed him back to sleep. It was nearly midnight as Sherlock woke fully again nearing a full ten hours later. His mother was the first to notice and she took his hand,

"Sherlock!" she called softly,

"Mama?" that moment before Sherlock's brain fully switched on the teen was so sweet and innocent and HER baby she could tear up with emotion,

"I'm here baby,"

"And so is daddy and Mycroft . . ." but then he always managed to find a way to spoil it. Not that it was his fault of course; he didn't even realise how he acted during that initial period of waking up and wouldn't be able to change it even if he did.

"And any old porter who wants to traipse in . . ." she did wish he would find a way to be less … less of a brat though.

"And anyone off the street!" Sherlock finally finished his mini-rant and stared blearily around at his family – still in the same positions as when he fell asleep ten hours ago,

"Have you not moved all the time I was asleep?"

"Of course we did – mother and father showered and changed and I moved from here to the bathroom several times." Sherlock frowned as he took in his parents' change of clothes,

"Oh," he blushed and tried to work out why he hadn't seen that instantly . . .

"Ohhhh!" pain struck again and he tensed (which only made things hurt more)

"Baby?"

"Press the button for the nurse, he needs more medication," Mycroft instructed rapidly.

"I … do … not!" his words might have been more convincing if he hadn't forced them out through clenched teeth and panted breaths.

"You're so stubborn!" he mother cried as she held his hand, powerless to help him.

"My … best … quality!" he proclaimed as a doctor entered. The pain eased as this, female doctor, administered more drugs.

"Horrible … drug …" he mumbled drifting off. It occurred to Mycroft he was probably referring to the drugs given to him by the hospital staff instead of the drug dealers who injured him but he wisely didn't mention that. His thoughts turned to the dead men who had done this and his hands clenched with the force of his unprecedented violent thoughts.

Lady Holmes caught sight of her eldest son; tight with tension, fearful and almost tearful with worry, and tried to help,

"Mycroft, honey why don't you get Jason to drive you home for a bit? Get some rest?"

"I can't!" Mycroft exclaimed and just the thought nearly sent him into a panic attack. His parents suddenly realised Sherlock was not their only son in pain. They moved closer to him, being careful not to crowd him as he tried to breathe evenly.

"You did the best you could more than . . ." Lady Holmes started to say but Mycroft cut her off,

"It wasn't enough!" the young adult erupted with self-flagellation.

"Oh Mycroft . . ."

"He's like me but not … he's not emotionally capable of handling … everything," Mycroft had a rare struggle with words as he tried to explain his need to look after his brother.

"My dear boy, you are not responsible for him – I am, and your mother is. You already do far more for him than even he realises . . ."

"He asked me earlier – how I coped, how I could see the world the same way as him and still handle everything that entails." Mycroft calmed as quickly as he got agitated,

"What did you say?" Lord Holmes asked curious,

"I said I thought before I acted," his parents half-laughed knowing it was true – to some extent.

tbc


	3. John and Harry

Chapter Three

John and Harry

Mycroft and his parents continued to discuss Sherlock in the large London hospital whilst not too far away, in an almost empty and run-down flat within an old tower block John Watson wriggled about in his short, narrow single bed. Harry Watson was snoring loudly from her uncomfortable position sprawled over the only bit of furniture in the living room: an armchair.

The siblings had argued about who was sleeping where – John maintaining he would be fine on the floor and Harry insisting he wouldn't get up again if he did. As usual Harry had won and been correct; she still really could sleep anywhere while he found it ever more difficult to sleep.

She was just under a year older than him – eleven months and three days to be exact and his half sister. Their mother had been young and naïve and lost her virginity in a one-night stand with a happily married, middle aged, middle class lawyer who had been bored but happy with his wife and children. Harry's father refused to even meet her and declared he would not be paying for her upbringing. Broke and abandoned by her religious family Mama Watson had abandoned her beautiful two-month-old baby girl to a neighbour and gotten drunk. That ended up in a one nightstand this time with a stranger and … John, who never even discovered his father's name.

With two babies and no support system Lynn Watson was quickly given a small council house in a Northumbrian village just south of the Scottish border. Money was tight and John and Harry didn't make life easy but she grew close to another single mother in the village and grew into her role as mummy. Harry and John had a happy childhood – although John often found the peaceful village dull. Just before her thirty-first birthday, Ms Watson re-married and became Mrs West. Mr West (at the age of twenty-nine) wasn't too happy to become 'dad' to two teenagers and when a baby West appeared less than a year later the two teenagers found themselves ignored in their own home. Harry had just turned sixteen, John fifteen so they already had a plethora of emotional challenges to navigate.

Two years later Harry left for London and almost immediately found love – unexpectedly female she was instantly person non grata to their mother who over the years had gone back to her religious roots. John, unwilling to stay alone in a house where no one wanted him, joined the army at just seventeen. There he trained as a medical doctor, and then five years later, was sent to serve abroad; first to Northern Ireland, then a brief spell in Iraq before a much longer period in Afghanistan.

He sent postcards twice a year to his mother and her burgeoning family and called his sister at least once a month. It was to London, then, that he went during his leave. His social sister always had a mate with a spare room for him to rent for the short weeks he stayed and her friends easily became his friends. Too busy enjoying life for a permanent girlfriend some of these friends shared more than just a room with the good-looking, easily going army doctor. Life was good for both of them for the first time in years.

Then Harry lost her job, started drinking heavily and split up from her partner, Clara, all in the space of just three months. During which time John was getting shot at and near enough blown up every damn day and … he loved it . . . the adrenalin surge of a near miss could leave him shaking for hours. He began to crave the rush, going out of his way to risk his life. He became so absorbed in this quest for danger and excitement that he stopped calls to his sister and even worked through his leave. Whenever nervous feelings of apprehension stirred he would remind himself that every time he risked his own life it was to save another; a comrade or innocent villager.

After six months of increasingly careless behaviour his teammates recognised his actions as dangerous to himself and them and tried to talk with him about it. He stubbornly ignored them for another four months. There was no easy way for them to deal with his behaviour – head doctors didn't go to the front lines and the bosses weren't willing to recall the man who had saved so many lives.

As his teammates feared his behaviour ended with a terrible result; one soldier dead, four more injured irreversible and John with barely a scratch. By rushing in where only fools dared John had forced his team, his friends … no his family to follow. And one of them paid the ultimate price. It was the guilt more than his injuries that crippled the young doctor. The entire incident was labelled a terrible accident and after six months coped up in a military hospital John was ejected head first out the army the week before his twenty-sixth birthday. There had been plenty of time to reach out to his sister recovering but John found he couldn't. Not with the reminders of his failure lying in the beds around him.

That was one of the worst parts – they didn't blame him; when he had bravely stood by their bedsides ready for their hatred and torrents of abuse he found they easily forgave him, one refused to even hold him responsible.

"It's just who you are – we all accepted that. You care and hell you're the reason a lot of us made it home with your nimble patchwork." John couldn't accept their kindness and fled. But when he turned up at his sisters' door after nearly four years of no contact John had found only Clara and more guilt.

Clara told him that if Harry didn't get drunk enough to be hospitalised she would often make her way to stand outside the house and beg for forgiveness. John asked her to call him the next time that happened – he had no other way of getting in contact with the only family he actually wanted to see. The half an hour sat with Clara revealed she still loved his sister and John resolved to help them (he didn't have anything else to strive for).

It was three months later that he got the call, two more before she would agree to even have a coffee with him. Three weeks after that he had convinced her to call him when she needed him. This was the fourth such occasion in just over two weeks and John had begun to despair at ever being able to help. She refused to even let him know where she was staying.

Now he apparently had a job, decent accommodation and all the help for Harry that she could stand. It was slightly overwhelming unless it was a cruel trick. He thought despite the unusual family interaction the family seemed to genuinely care about each other. That might be cause for worry in itself though –he was confident in his skills as a doctor but he hadn't seen that boy … Sherlock's chart and had no idea what might be involved in caring for him.

These thoughts swirled around his head as he tried to sleep. The company of his sister was smoothing in more ways than one; he didn't have to worry about where she was or what she might be doing and also after so many years sleeping with a bunch of rowdy soldiers a quiet room unnerved him. It took less time than usual for him to fall asleep. Unfortunately that meant it took less time for the nightmares that plagued him to disturb his sleep. They ripped through his rest three times, and after the last one he simply got up.

He stood in his kitchen in the dark, with a cup of tea held tightly in both hands, remembering his nightmares. The first and second were hazy but the third was unusually clear. Not the battlefield with his comrades all dead and dying around him as usual but the medical hospital in the UK. And instead of his injured army friends, Sherlock and Harry lay in the beds either side of him. They had the missing limbs and scars of those who had been in Afghanistan as they compared which of them he had let down the most as if they had been fighting alongside him. It was a deeply disturbing dream, for many reasons, but the most troubling aspect of it to John was that it raised this boy he had only just met to the level of his sister. Had the teenager made that much of an impression on him?

John puzzled over the question as sunlight slowly lit the living area. He was pulled from his thoughts suddenly,

"No … Damn you … Stop!" Harry cried out still asleep. John near enough threw his mug on the counter and raced to her side,

"Harry, Harry its John, wake up!" he placed a hand on her shoulder to shake her but didn't get the chance as she bolted upright … fist first!

The surprise and force of it pushed John backwards onto his bad leg, which didn't hold his unexpected weight. As Harry opened her eyes, John crashed to the floor. She hurried out a sorry and raced to the bathroom. John caught his breath and crawled to his feet. She was still kissing the toilet when he got his crutch and went looking for her.

"Harry?" he asked hesitantly from outside the door,

"Be a minute," she called back so he went back to the kitchen and got a glass or water and put the kettle on. He waited patiently until she joined him. One look at him and she half smiled,

"Gonna have a real shiner there Johnny,"

"What were you dreaming about?"

"I don't wanna talk about it,"

"Harry come on . . ."

"Shove it! Should I ask you all about your nightmares?"

"…" John turned from where he stood making two cups of tea to give her a questioning look,

"Yea I heard 'erm last night knew better than ta get in ya face bout 'em,"

"You're my sister I want to help,"

"You won't let me help you – not told me nothin' bout why you got that thing," Harry pointed down at John's crutch.

"You could do – is that what it'll take to get you to talk to me?"

"Some things are better left unsaid,"

"I don't understand,"

"Well that figures," Harry moved closer to grab a cup of tea.

"Harry . . . "

"Leave it John!" she shouted spinning round to look at him spilling hot tea over the floor and her hand,

"Dammit. Our lives aren't all peaches and cream I learnt to accept that why can't you,"

"Did something happen . . . that started the drinking?" John had never wondered why his sister had become an alcoholic until now,

"Oh for foks sake Johnny!" there was real tension in her voice so John fell silent; knowing if he pushed she would run (probably after throwing her tea mug at him).

She moved to the armchair, shoved the coat she had used for bedding onto the floor and sat down. John put down his mug and knelt to wipe the floor.

Harry held her mug under her nose and watched him struggle to his feet. If he had been facing her he would have seen the guilt on her face but it had gone by the time he turned around. He leant against the counter facing her.

"You going for the modern art, bare look or something Johnny?" she asked referring to the lack of furniture, decoration and personal stuff.

"Until now I didn't need anything else," When the two spoke alone their childhood accents returned as usual. Harry's was much more pronounced since John had mostly lost his while working abroad.

"Your pension can't really be this bad?"

"Most of it goes on therapy," John admitted,

"Do you really need it?" as quickly as her temper had arrived it was gone again,

"It's not helped so far," he muttered,

"I never really asked what happened." Harry's question was tentative and John thought if he could open up to her about the most devastating part of his life maybe she would open up to him … maybe they could help each other . . .

"There's a café on the corner – I'm going to need breakfast for this," he said standing up straight.

Uncaring that she hadn't showered or changed, Harry got up off the sofa and slipped on her pair of high heeled sandals.

"You're buying right?" Harry asked with a grin.

tbc

Author's Note: A poll now on my profile – name Sherlock's parents 8)


	4. John, Mycroft, the Lord and Lady

Chapter Four

John, Mycroft, the Lord and Lady and a man called James or Jim. Never Jimmy!

Two Days later John hailed a taxi and headed to the Holmes Family Home. It was just gone seven in the morning and he was wearing his best clothes: a thick white jumper and dark navy jeans. The rest of his (very limited) wardrobe was in a suitcase in the boot and he had a separate bag for his laptop and a medial journal or two he'd picked up when he was laid up in the hospital.

The day before John had gone with Harry to the nearby rehabilitation facility in a taxi provided by Mycroft. After seeing it he had looked up how much it cost and nearly fallen out his armchair. To think that these new employers were willing to pay him on top of a room there – if he hadn't been so determined to help his sister he would have refused such obvious charity.

After John had talked his heart out to his sister she had snuck off and gotten drunk. John had let that one go – it hadn't been a Disney tale he'd recited after all. But the same thing happened again the next night. The next day he had repeatedly asked her to talk to him but she finally said she wasn't as brave as him and wanted to speak to a stranger. If she had any chance of getting her life back on track she needed him to keep this job – he would be more confident except he didn't really know how he had gotten it in the first place.

The brief encounters with the Holmes aristocratic family replayed in his mind as the taxi made the slow journey through rush hour traffic to the busy Baker Street. Given it's location between Baker Street and Marylebone stations John was really beginning to wish he had gotten a tube (even though that would mean dragging his suitcase and heavy backpack through the crowds). Turning onto the street John groaned as the way ahead was at a standstill despite being four lanes of one-way traffic. To his right was some old stuffy museum and he noted the address – 239. On the other side a hairdressers said 234 and he only needed to get to 221. Checking his watch, John decided to get out. He looked ahead to a couple of grand buildings and wondered if the Holmes family owned all of one of them. He paid the quiet driver, got his bags and started walking.

Although he had researched them on the Internet the Holmes family were very private and carefully guarded what information on them was public. Only Sherlock had a website of his own and it had nothing on the family. It was just a personal site dedicated to something he called the science of deduction. John had found it fascinating and rather startling – had the teen done it all himself? Some of it seemed completely ridiculous – knowing a pilot from his left thumb? Really? John would have completely dismissed it but the teen had been right about Harry's fight. The young siblings had talked about the job offer and she had told him everything she had overheard – which wasn't much:

"Ordinary rich folks." Maybe that was true of the older three but John sensed they were more than rich and Sherlock was anything but ordinary.

The entrance to the Holmes residence (mansion) was grand and classically beautiful and up seven steps. John clambered up them stiffly going up each step individually. Just as he reached the last one the imposing double doors opened and a large redheaded man, bursting out a neat black suit, hurried out to greet him,

"Doctor Watson – you're as early as Mister Mycroft expected here let me take your bags for you," The smiling man had a thick Scottish accent that instantly relaxed John.

"Thank you," he said relinquishing his bags with gratitude.

"Jimmy here will show you to young Sherlock,"

"My name is James or Jim if you must," John's attention was drawn from where he had been gazing around the entrance hall in awe to quickly focus on this man who had almost been hiding behind one of the doors. He spoke with a Queen's English accent and his tone was haughty, sharp and unforgiving. A slender, short man he fitted neatly into his very nice (and probably expensive) three-piece suit. John felt very under-dressed in his woolly jumper and baggy jeans.

The entrance hall was two storeys of open space with a balcony overlooking the main doors and a beautifully decorated lift under that. The top of all the walls were painted white and the bottoms were panelled with sharply carved light wood. The staircase was at least ten paces away in the corner curving up from the right corner to the centre with a black iron intricately designed flower handrail. The floor was lined with patterned white marble and the windows were long and obscure, providing a fierce security blackout whilst allowing sunlight to fill the room.

"Pleased to meet you James . . ." John dragged his attention from the room to hold his hand out but received only a sneer,

"Jason will take your bags to your room, the lord and lady are currently eating breakfast in the sun room."

"Ease up a bit Jim, John 'ere is gonna think we're a right unwelcoming pair,"

"The bags, Jason," the Scottish man sighed and bent down to whisper loudly in John's ear,

"Maybe you got something in 'ere we could mellow 'im out wit?"

"NOW Jason!" the sudden order offended John and he tapped his crutch against the majestic floor slightly in protest,

"No funny bone at all," Jason muttered finally moving away.

"As I was saying Lord and Lady Holmes are in the sunroom and asked me to bring you to them when you arrived," he paused waiting for Jason to completely disappear through a door to the left of the lift,

"However Mister Mycroft would like a word with you first," his words sounded innocent enough but the way he spoke and grinned . . . John had the strangest feeling he was supposed to feel threatened or perhaps afraid,

"Ok I'll follow you then," John was trying for friendly but James wasn't making that easy.

"Yes, yes you will," James' tone would probably have sent shivers up a lesser man's back. And the way he smiled, like he knew something John didn't … it unnerved the soldier slightly.

The butler (John assumed that was his job title) spun on his heel and strode quickly across the grand hall. John followed quickly and glanced at the lift; James grinned as he saw this and increased his pace. Looking up John noticed the stairs space went up for at least five storeys (though past this one floor they narrowed).

"Keep up Doctor Watson," James challenged with another sneer from the top of the stairs. The army vet was not about to be bested by some stuck up butler with an attitude problem. He lifted his crutch out the way and motored up after his very rude guide.

They just about reached the top of the second set of stairs together.

"Very good John, now another!" James mocked and leapt up the stairs with the ease of practice. John increased his speed again and was not too far behind.

"Yes I can see why Sherlock likes you." John didn't know how to respond to that so stayed quiet.

"Be brave," James said with a grin – his eyes twinkly manically. He crossed the hallway and rapped three times on a heavy dark door, which swung open.

"Ah John you arrived," Mycroft sat behind a dark wooden desk facing the door. Between them screens covered almost the entire wall. The majority were turned off but three nearest the desk were on and John was surprised to see they were of the inside of the house: Mycroft had been watching him from the moment he had arrived. Even more disturbing was one showing Sherlock sitting up in bed. Mycroft followed his eyes and frowned. He pushed one of many buttons on his desk,

"Sherlock what did I say about moving?"

"I'm BORED!" John jumped as Sherlock's voice came out from some sort of hidden intercom system.

"Try to contain yourself for just a little while longer – your doctor is here," and again John was perturbed by the way that had been said despite the innocent words.

"Good, good … wait is he there with you?"

"I'm here," John, answered confused by the concern in his question,

"Be a good boy for just a little while longer Sherlock,"

"Mycroft don't you . . ." Sherlock was cut-off mid-word as his brother took his finger off that particular button. John turned back to Mycroft to demand to know what that was all about but the other man was watching the screen intently. John turned to see what he found so interesting and watched as the teenager threw a pillow in the direction of the camera. Mycroft sighed again and pressed another button, this time the door opened,

"Sir?"

"Please go see to my brother Mr Moriarty."

"Of course sir," John wondered if he was the only one to notice how the man's eyes light up at the request.

The door closed by itself as Mycroft pressed the button again and John was left feeling more than a little restless. He waited for him to speak but the other man seemed content to simply study him. Finally John asked frustrated,

"What is going on? Why am I here?"

"I wanted to speak with you before James takes you to my parents," the eldest son spoke slowly, considering each word and watching John's reaction to each of them,

"Why?"

"I wanted to let you know how seriously I take looking after my brother," despite the loving words Mycroft could have been speaking about the weather for all the affection in his voice.

"By spying on him?"

"By all means necessary," Mycroft eyed him carefully after that statement and John wondered what he expected. Finally the elder Holmes brother moved his eyes back to the computer screens and John followed his eyes just in time to see James Moriarty enter the bedroom holding a pair of handcuf … wait handcuffs?

"You're handcuffing him to the bed?" John yelled in outraged and whipped his head back to face Mycroft,

"For the past three days it has been the only way to keep him still," Mycroft stayed relaxed at his desk – not at all worried by John's anger.

"That's just … I mean …" John spluttered as he watched Sherlock wriggle around trying to avoid James who by now had a very large syringe,

"What are you drugging him with?" John stood rigid angrily clenching his free fist and clutching his walking crutch,

"You're very loyal very quickly,"

"I'm really not … what are you giving him?" John's feeble attempt at disinterest failed,

"Just a sedative Doctor, it's the only way to stop him slipping out the handcuffs – don't worry they don't put him all the way under. And this is much better than the alternative drugs he would take himself,"

"Sherlock does drugs? Seriously him?" John asked in surprise,

"My brother is brilliant; Doctor Watson, quite simply the second most intelligent man you're ever likely to meet,"

"Who is the first?"

"Me of course. The only real difference between us, other than a few extra IQ points, is that I can cope with the emotional strain of my intellect and Sherlock struggles with his. He uses drugs to pass the time, to avoid being bored and to forget just how difficult he finds social situations."

"What does that mean?" Mycroft's mobile phone buzzed on his desk but he ignored it.

"Sherlock struggles to understand emotions; in other people and with how to express his own. Our parents therefore distanced him from people in order to protect him. This has led to a certain apathy, which many people interpret as cold-heartedness but that is simply not accurate Doctor Watson." Mycroft's expression was so empty and disinterested John wondered if his concern was genuine,

"My brother has emotions doctor; he just doesn't know how to express them."

"Unlike like you, you mean! What does all this have to do with me?"

"As I just explained Sherlock does not do well around people – he usually ends up frustrated with them … or them, him,"

"What?"

"Don't act a fool John; I have the results of every exam you've ever taken and quite a lot more," John didn't doubt him for even a second,

"Who are you?"

"Lord Mycroft Holmes the fourth,"

"The fourth … really?"

"Yes which reminds me your mother and step father have recently celebrated the birth of their fourth child would you like to know her name?"

Mycroft pressed a button and a screen turned on: a happy picture of John's mother, stepfather and four young children frozen on it. John stared at them, taking in all the details. Two boys and now a second girl; it had been over five years since John had received a letter from his mother. She had never sent him pictures though.

"Or perhaps you would like to know the names of your uncles' children? Your mother resolved her differences with her family I guess since you …" Mycroft paused to get out a notebook,

"And Harry weren't around . . ."

"Don't!" even as John protested, Mycroft pressed a button and the picture changed, flashing between two families.

"I even have the name of your real father, it wasn't too difficult to find," the screen changed again and on it stood a man so very much like John smiling into his mobile. This picture was not a family portrait but one covertly taken.

"Really who the HELL are you?" John forced his eyes from the screen to glare at the seated man,

"I worry about my wayward sibling … I'm sure you can sympathise,"

"Is that a threat?"

Mycroft pressed a button and the door opened,

"Mr Moriarty – Doctor Watson is ready to meet with my parents now,"

"This way doctor,"

John followed in silence, letting himself be led to the lift. James Moriarty pressed the button for the lift and smirked as John mindlessly followed him, attention clearly elsewhere. John finally noticed they were going all the way up to the ninth floor and saw James' vulgar expression,

"What?"

"You look rather shell-shocked," he gloated. John was embarrassed by how much that meeting had affected him; all he could think about were the photo's of his family.

James Moriarty strode out the lift and John limped out after him. Walking down a rather long hallway the doctor caught sight of a camera high up on the wall and was sure Mycroft would be watching him.

"Lord and lady – Doctor Watson has arrived,"

"Thank you James, Doctor Watson please sit with us a while." A maid, an actual maid in a maid outfit pulled a third chair out,

"Would you like something to eat or drink?" Lady Holmes asked politely, distracting John from gazing around in wonder,

"Oh a cup of tea please, milk and one sugar thank you," he smiled at the maid causing her to blush and smile back.

John could see why this was called the sunroom – it was a large dining room at the very top of the building, which overlooked all its neighbours. The front and back walls had floor to ceiling windows and the back wall had a set of doors opening out onto what he guessed was a massive roof area.

While John was gazing around the maid quickly made his drink and then scampered off with James who had been waiting by the door. He wrapped his arms around her as they left. The sight surprised John and Lady Holmes laughed at his expression,

"Miranda is a sweet girl, so very different from James don't you think?"

"I wouldn't really know," John peered out over Regents Park feeling completely out his depth.

"You don't like him though," she pressed,

"Am I that transparent?"

"Unfortunately in this household yes dear but my husband is also rather clueless aren't you darling?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about Rose," the couple stayed a look and a smile and John shifted in his chair uncomfortably,

"Now John I'm sure our James was less than forth-coming on your way up here so I'll just tell you a little about Sherlock and this big old place,"

"Thank you," John sipped his tea,

"Sherlock is fifteen and a bit more … difficult than most teenagers . . . "

"Understatement," Lord Holmes muttered,

"Charles! Anyway he gets bored very easily we've had to drug him just to keep him in bed," John couldn't help but express his distaste for that practice, luckily it was muted by the fact he already knew,

"You don't approve?"

"I . . . I've just never thought that as a solution," John answered cautiously,

"Well we are hoping with you here it won't be necessary,"

"So in addition to being Sherlock's doctor I'm supposed to be what . . . his court jester?" John asked flaring his nostrils angrily,

"Dear me you are defensive, stand down soldier it's actually our sincere hope that you will become his friend,"

"Friend?" John echoed completely thrown,

"Yes he's never had one before," The lady was incredibly frank in informing him of this,

"Never had . . . sorry what?"

"Not even an imaginary one," Lady Rose Holmes smiled sadly,

"Friend?" John questioned for a second time,

"Yes his father and I took him out of school when he was so young,"

"We talked about this Rose we did what we thought was best," Lord Holmes spoke up,

"Our other son put Sherlock's medical file together for you; he said it would be easier than trying to get it from our doctor. He also made an information pack for you, with diagrams of the building layout and the household particulars. Just last year he upgraded all the security features. This house caters for us as a family first and foremost but we also have all manors of guests staying here diplomats, royalty, Charles' parents,"

"Erm royalty?" John asked worriedly,

"Yes nobody you'd know I don't suppose but some of them are family of a sorts" Lady Holmes wrinkled her nose at the thought.

"You have royal family members?"

"Yes, yes more hassle than its worth believe you me," Lord Charles said wearily.

"I can imagine . . . sorry no I can't,"

"Stop it Charles you're overwhelming the boy,"

"Me? You're the one who brought it up,"

"I only thought it fair to warn him given that charity ball you insisted on hosting here next month,"

"You promised you didn't mind . . . " John started laughing, he really couldn't help himself – they may have royal family but they acted as every couple John had ever known. Lady Holmes gave her husband the dreaded 'I'll talk to you later' look and turned her attention back to John.

"Anyway the reason I brought it up was to stress the importance of following the security procedures. It's all written here and Mycroft will go through anything you wanted clarified. Basically you need a lift key to get past level five. Do you have a mobile?"

John pulled a brick out his pocket and held it up.

"Yes Mycroft mentioned you would benefit from a staff phone," Lady Holmes pushed a package and two folders over the table to John.

"You got me a phone?"

"He did yes, Sherlock likes to text," The package suddenly buzzed and John opened it,

Come now. SH

"You son is … asking for me?"

"Yes he does that," Lady Holmes didn't give any sign of moving just sipped her tea again. The package also contained a photo ID that he held up questioningly.

"That is to get you through the doors – in a few weeks you can lose the photo ID. Mycroft hired a few ex-soldier types as security guards. We don't really need them but … well they make Charles and Mycroft feel better when they're away from home,"

"I see," Both of John's phones buzzed and two other phones trilled,

My visitor!

"Oh Sherlock," he mother said sighing. James Moriarty appeared, his suit slightly ruffled with lipstick marks on his lips and neck.

"The master of the house is ordering me to bring him his doctor," he said sarcastically,

"I'll take him James you get back to your young love," Lady Holmes said smiling,

"I'm here now and I don't min . . . "

"Honestly its fine James I wanted to see my son anyway,"

"Of course my lady," the man bowed low and quickly. He sent a hate-filled glance at John before leaving again.

Lady Holmes finished her tea and stood,

"Are you ready for my son?" she asked with a grin and John could honestly say no, no he really, really wasn't.

WC - 3532


	5. Sherlock & John

Chapter Five

Sherlock & John

John picked up the paperwork and followed Lady Rose Holmes out the bright room. She pointed to each of the closed doors as they passed,

"Kitchen … bar," they reached the lift but Lady Holmes continued to name the doors the other side of the building as they waited for it,

"Family room and the small library where the boys did their school work,"

The lift ride was only down two floors and the other side Rose again pointed to each of the doors,

"A second family room … my husbands office … the boy's toy room of course Sherlock is the only one to use that now for all his funny science experiments: don't touch anything in there without him it could be anything … a communal bathroom and finally Sherlock's bedroom," the scratched door they walked towards was at the far end his bedroom past the 'toy' room. The wall between was also shabby with marks and dents, a marked difference from the rest of the spotless house.

"The floor above is the two guest bedrooms my parents and in-laws use, my room, my husbands' room and our eldest's'," John nodded but Lady Holmes must have seen a hint of confusion,

"Sherlock used to have a room with the rest of us but after a row with Mycroft he moved down here and has never seen the need to come back up again." Lady Holmes looked vaguely sad about that so John merely nodded again.

"We turned his room into a very large walk-in closet." She smiled again and entered Sherlock's realm.

"John … you made it," Sherlock shifted in his double bed trying to wriggle upwards. John noted with relief he was no longer handcuffed. His eyes were wide open and staring dopily up at his mother then he frowned,

"John?" he questioned,

"He's right behind me … have you been giving your brother trouble?" John wanted to protest, to back the teenager since clearly his parents didn't trust him.

"I … no … he … Sherlock whined, frustrated he couldn't say what he wanted too,

"Honey you have to stay still!" Sherlock's mother pleaded with him.

"John!" Sherlock suddenly shouted, a train of thought blazing through the drugs,

"Ye . . . "

"Mycroft … with … John!"

"Do you understand what he means?" Lady Holmes turned shrewd eyes on John,

"When I first arrived I spoke with your other son," John didn't get the significance but Lady Holmes nodded with sudden clarity.

"I see … Sherlock John is allowed to speak to other members of this family, yes he will be spending most of his time with you but you aren't to monopolise all his time you understand?" Sherlock mumbled and sank into his bed falling back to sleep,

"Would you mind staying here until he wakes up again?"

"Of course not – I'll read these files," Sherlock's medical records were rather extensive and John was eager to go through them, to get on with the part of this job he knew he could do.

"Thank you … I know all this must be a bit outside your comfort zone but Sherlock really needs someone with your admirable character as a role model." The elegant lady nodded at John, cast a loving look over her son and exited.

John took a slow turn around the room … it was chaotic and if John had thought the hallway had been damaged it was nothing compared to the room: great dents littered the four walls and ceiling, random colour was splashed across otherwise light yellow walls and clues to what might have made them were strewn over the floor – pots, jars (unlabelled) even a collection of buckets filled with various soils (one had an ivy growing out of it).

There was no furniture except for a bed and very large desk/table. Paper and books were haphazardly piled over every surface. They seemed to be in some sort of order – John saw four books on the history of Germany (with two more books written in German) but the same pile also had a hardback on butterflies. The room was as far from that of a teenage boy as John could have imagined: no TV, no posters (of sport or anything else), no clothes of any kind and no computers.

A desk chair stood in front of the desk covered by a blanket and three books. John moved the books to what seemed to be the sole bit of floor space and sat on the blanket. He lowered the chair and swung round to face the bed (turning his back on the invasive camera).

The medical file on Sherlock started with his most recent injuries (including x-rays, private doctors note even a police report) and went back to his birth. Doctor Watson was grateful and almost overwhelmed by its thoroughness. He was happy to see Sherlock's current injuries were not as severe as total bed rest would indicate and the teenager would be happy to be able to get up in just a day or two. He guessed the hospital had proscribed the extreme measure as a precaution because of the families' status. When the report moved back to Sherlock's last medical exam John backtracked – there didn't seem to be any mention of what drug Sherlock was being given. After double checking it was clear it had been missed out deliberately. He turned back to look at the camera and promised himself he would find out no matter if it led to him being dismissed.

Moving on he was sad (but not surprised) to see the boys check up noted the teen was underweight, undernourished, anaemic, difficult (attributed to depression), mentally unstable and possibly suicidal. The report seemed unusually invasive for just a check up but considering the camera over his shoulder and what its conclusions were John wasn't surprised. He wondered if Mycroft's heavy-handed treatment of Sherlock was a cause of the boys' problems or a reaction to it.

Before that there was a description written again by the private doctor reporting Sherlock's experience while being restrained unable to inject himself with heroin. It had amendments by Mycroft. John was upset to realise this 'cold turkey' event took place over his fourteenth birthday.

"Doctor Oswald Althorp, 'god even his name is pretentious" John muttered.

Just as he was reading about Sherlock's appendectomy the teen huffed,

"Bor-in,"

"You're awake!" John said obviously (much to Sherlock's annoyance) and nearly dropped the file in surprise,

"What was your … first clue?" the teen asked sarcastically still fighting the effects of whatever drug he had been given. John ignored his question and asked his own,

"How are you feeling?"

"Bored!" Sherlock's answer was predictable and not what John had meant,

"I meant do you have any pain anywhere?"

"You weren't specific,"

"My mistake," John waited patiently as Sherlock stared at him before huffing and looking up at the ceiling.

"So that's a no then?" John kept his voice even,

"Mycroft's drug is doing its job doctor," the teen's voice was sullen and dull, worrying John but he had the opening he had been waiting for,

"And what drug would that be?"

"I don't know you're the doctor – It'll be experimental though,"

"What makes you say that?"

"You're reading my medical file,"

"And?" Sherlock huffed for a third time and sent an aggravated look at John,

"That's the only reason Mycroft would have left out its name. Are you always going to ask me obvious questions?"

"Quite possibly. Is that going to be a problem?" Sherlock blinked, obviously taken back by John's abruptness.

"Why are you smiling?" The teen seemed confused by his own question as if he meant to say or ask something else,

"Wait are you mocking me?" Sherlock seemed to try and pull his long limbs closer to his body as he asked the question. John recognised the motion of someone trying to hide and it was a disconcerting thing to witness.

"No Sherlock I'm smiling because I'm impressed with your non-nonsense attitude when you're minutes away from falling asleep,"

"Do you al…always smile when some … someone impresses you?" Sherlock's confused question was interrupted as he yawned – loud and long.

"Not always,"

"Good, it makes you lo…look stu . . ." Sherlock drifted off mid-word and John's (stupid) grin grew. He predicted he would enjoy Sherlock's company – the way he would say exactly what he was thinking, ask intelligent questions and maybe even how he acted like a irritable child.

It took John a further three hours to get through Sherlock's file thankfully the boy slept through all that. It was now lunchtime and as John put the file down wondering what he was to do for food someone knocked on Sherlock's door. As the only occupant awake, John answered,

"Yes, come in,"

It was Miranda and she had a tray full of John's favourite food. John supposed this was another message from Mycroft.

"Mister Mycroft sent this up for you,"

"I guessed as much thank you,"

"You're welcome," the young lady blushed and pointed to a sandwich,

"Mister Mycroft said Sherlock was to eat this as soon as he woke I don't … I mean he won't … I . . ."

"The kid won't want it and I'll have to force feed it to him?" John guessed what she was trying to stutter out,

"Yes … well Mister Mycroft thought you would be … gentler than himself,"

"Why might he think that?" instead of becoming scared or defensive of John's anger Miranda answered immediately,

"Because you're a gentle man,"

"And he's not?" John queried with raised eyebrows,

"No and you're kind and caring," she was facing the camera and she must know who was sat watching it so John was surprised but her frank answer and by how she saw him,

"I'm a soldier!" suddenly John could feel his army issued machine gun in his hands and pictured pointing towards an armed enemy combatant. His finger twitched as he imagined pulling the trigger and recoiled from seeing a flash and feeling the heat of the explosion as a concealed bomb exploded.

Something touched his arm and he jerked to his knees heaving into a handy bucket.

"M…M…Mister Watson?"

"I believe the doctor has just had a flashback Miranda pass him that water?" Sherlock's voice was tense and John remained on his knees flushing with embarrassment. He forced a smile when he accepted the water from Miranda.

"A…are you alright?" she looked frightened of him or for him . . . John couldn't find the energy to care either way. He felt drained, empty and desolate. Some of what he was feeling must have shown in his eyes because Miranda sat down by his side and put her arm around him.

"I'm sorry about that," he said,

"It's … what are you apologising for?" Miranda asked curious,

"I don't know," he admitted not wanting to list all the possible things he felt sorry for.

Miranda laughed and John joined in and if either sounded hysterical neither mentioned it. Sherlock huffed in utter confusion at the pair setting them off again.

"What is so funny?" he asked confounded.

"Nothing Sherlock," Miranda managed to say between giggles,

"Obviously something is or you wouldn't be laughing," he said feeling left out and not likely that at all.

"Maybe John can explain it to you," Miranda said finally controlling herself and got to her feet. She picked up the bucket, stroked John's shoulder and left the bedroom.

"Well?" John lent back against the desk leg and put his head back against the chair seat at Sherlock's demand for an answer.

"Sometimes people laugh to release tension Sherlock," he finally said looking up at the teenager.

"I've never done that. What were you tense about?"

"Lot's of reasons,"

"Like what?"

"Throwing up in your bedroom for a start,"

"Well I can see why that would make you tense but why did Miranda laugh?"

"Because I was laughing,"

"I don't understand!" Sherlock was practically wailing by now and John was finding it difficult to maintain patience with him. Instead of answering him the doctor stared at him and yawned: long and obviously. The teenager yawned back and his first reaction was to scowl at John but mere seconds later he jerked almost upright,

"I understand – she was mimicking you!" he said triumphantly.

"It's slightly more complicated than . . ."

"Yes, yes these sorts of things always are. They would have to be otherwise I would easily comprehend them," Sherlock seemed to be processing something in that great brain of his so John put his head back down and had a moment to himself. That had not been his first flashback or even the first of that particular memory but they always left him worn, feeling echoes of his injuries and isolated.

A squeak from Sherlock's bed recaptured his attention.

"What are you doing?" John asked annoyed as Sherlock was in the process of trying to rise,

"My family is always stressing the importance of food I thought I would pass your lunch to you," his words were innocent but John was no fool – this was merely an excuse to get up unnoticed.

"Lie back down now!" John ordered challenging the teen to see what the consequences would be if he disobeyed. Thankfully Sherlock abided him and he didn't have to think of his next action as a severe one.

"Let's see, your brother got you a cheese and pickle sandwich," John handed it to him,

"It'll probably be drugged," Sherlock said uninterested in eating.

"Did you want mine?" John offered.

"What will you eat?"

"I just threw up Sherlock I'm not hungry,"

"Oh what do you have?"

"Corn beef, lettuce and tomato."

"Yuck – could I have the pack of crisps?"

"You're injured you should be eating healthy foods," John complained but passed him the snack.

Sherlock smiled at him and ate each crisp individually, slowly, not completely able to sit up.

In the security office Mycroft smiled at the screen – he hadn't been fully convinced John was the right companion for his brother but after that display he was certain. John had the patience to cope with his brother and seemed to inspire an unparallel amount of focus. His brother also listened to the doctor's order to stay in bed and actually ate something without being prompted. Mycroft shuffled through the file he had on the man again – what was it about him that made Sherlock so responsive to him?

Jim Moriarty stood by the side at the desk also staring at the screen but he was not smiling. He eyes flicked between John's shoulder where Miranda had stroked to Sherlock's smiling face. He was trying to remember the last time he had seen the teen smile at a person (instead of because he had discovered something or outwitted someone).

'John was going to be a problem' he thought and smiled as he plotted ways to … deal with this.

WC – 2513

AN – Chapter 5 and I've finally found a plot


	6. Moriarty

Chapter Six

Moriarty

John had been incorrect in his easier assumption; James Moriarty was not the family butler (although quite often he was treated as such). He was Lord Charles' assistant or at least he had been. An apprentice at the foreign office at the age of sixteen Lord Charles had taken an interest in him and invited him home for dinner one evening and then and there Lord Charles Holmes offered him the impressive role.

Flashback

James was about to decline – a PA was well below his ambitions but before he could answer the grinning Lord a ten year old boy was dragged into the dining hall by a stuffy old man with a bow tie and thick glasses. The man's grip on the boy's wrist was tight and red marks had already formed. James gazed up and down the boy with curiosity; far too thin and lanky, he was also too pale except where light freckles covered his nose. With jet black, shoulder length, messy hair and scruffy torn clothes he looked completely out of place in the grand sun room.

"My younger son, Sherlock," Lord Charles introduced as the child was forced into a seat. The man pushed the chair under the table and then stood behind it – trapping Sherlock. Part of James' mind concluded he was a tutor while the rest of it was busy analysing the child and how he held everyone's attention.

"I'm not hungry . . ."

"Eat something, please, Sherlock you've hidden yourself away for three days!"

Moriarty heard the desperate worry underneath the composed tone of the boy's mother and a dark part of him enjoyed it.

"I don't want anything!" the boy pouted and folded his thin arms sullenly. He raised his head and his pale eyes shone out from where his thick hair parted. That was when the ten year old deigned to investigate their guest. The boy studied him openly and James was stilled by his piercing eyes. The teen could almost see the child recording his observations. Both Lady Holmes and the other son Mycroft had done the same thing but they had been more covert.

"Would you like apple pie or chocolate cake?" a middle-aged ugly maid asked James, rudely intruding on his thoughts, while setting a toasted cheese sandwich in front of Sherlock (crusts cut off and sliced twice into four tiny triangles)

"Chocolate," Sherlock said, eyes still staring into his own,

"Sherlock? You want a pudding?" Lord Charles had asked surprised. The maid hurriedly picked up Sherlock's sandwich to take away and rush him what she thought he had asked for but the other boy stopped her,

"No daddy that's what Jim wants," Mycroft, sighed as he corrected his father.

James wondered at Mycroft's insight even as he tried to hide his anger at being called Jim but he knew Sherlock had seen it. No one else was looking at him and Sherlock waited curious to know if he would dare to correct Mycroft.

"Is that right Jim?" the ugly maid asked and James felt his eye twitch. Sherlock laughed loudly and, judging from the way everyone in the room suddenly froze, unexpectedly. Jim was gripped by a sudden rush of anger as the boy laughed at him. Since everyone's attention was on Sherlock they missed his murderous expression. The boy had gulped and tried to slip out under the table. Of course he hadn't succeeded and stared worriedly at James while everyone else ate pudding. The look made James feel powerful, strong and satisfied his lust for control. As the foul maid cleared the plates away James accepted the lords' job offer delighting in Sherlock's fear.

End Flashback

A month later the maid had died in a hit and run. Sherlock suspected Moriarty was behind it but had no way to prove it. Mycroft had already left for university and Lady Rose assumed his stories were a way of dealing with her loss. This was, for James, the most exciting part – for over five years he had been using the Holmes family connections to build a criminal empire and three of them were probably the only people smart enough to uncover it; one knew but couldn't prove it (and weren't his repeatedly tries so fun to thwart) and he had the other two (Lady Holmes and her eldest son) completely fooled. Of course working so closely with the eldest (and completely oblivious) Holmes the young evil genius had completely covered his tracks by the time the Lord retired (last year at the nice age of forty-eight, oh to be rich) and Jim's services were passed to his eldest son.

As he stood by the side of Mycroft James reflected how much more difficult the future was going to be with this man as his employer. There was no doubting Mycroft was more intelligent than his father, with greater observation skills than Sherlock and possibly a better understanding of human emotions than Lady Holmes. However the young man still thought of James as the man who made his sullen brother laugh. And that was how Moriarty intended to delude him. In the six years since that first meeting James had been surprised by how blatantly the family expected him to help Sherlock grow up. Now it looked as though they had found someone to replace him in that regard. James contemplated that John might succeed but decided it was too dangerous to him to let their friendship develop. The boy might try to involve him in their little game and that would definitely not do.

"What do you think Jim?" Mycroft's question suddenly jerked Jim out his thoughts. As usual in these circumstances he guessed an answer,

"I don't know either sir?" It so often worked with Lord Charles but Mycroft was not so easily conned,

"You didn't hear a word of what I just said," Mycroft smiled easily,

"You're right sir. I'm sorry," the contrite tone and facial expression came easily to Jim but he resented them. He forced himself to remember he was better than Mycroft to avoid a lapse.

"I understand I am also confused by Doctor Watson."

"It is curious that such an ordinary person has held Sherlock's attention for so long," Jim guessed following Mycroft's lead,

"I have John's file and he is anything but ordinary however I am interested in what it is about him that Sherlock finds so fascinating."

"…" Jim let a little annoyance show,

"Come now Jim you aren't jealous of our visitor are you? You still hold a significant amount of Sherlock's attention," Jim's flush of anger was interpreted as embarrassment and he turned his attention back to the screen. John was standing over Sherlock's bedside now, tucking him in. something only James and Miranda had done before (outside of his family).

As Mycroft laughed, Jim pictured how he was going to kill the man and his father. It needed to look like an accident but he wanted to watch the pair realise exactly who and what he was. He wanted Lady Holmes to know as well and he planned to use Sherlock to keep her under control. Use him to convince her to marry him – Lord James Moriarty just sounded right to him. At forty-five she was still pleasing to the eye and after a year or two he could get rid of her. Use his criminal empire to find the best women to please and entertain him while he kept Sherlock locked up.

The evil genius had never examined why he wanted Sherlock so close to him. He merely assumed it was because he recognised so much of himself in the boy; the only one to recognise the greatness (evilness) in him. The game they had been playing since the boy was ten delighted him and he had never stopped to consider its impact on the young Sherlock. Moriarty always wondered what the teen would do next; whether he had any more surprises. Just last month Sherlock had successfully stopped a shipment of stolen computer hardware reaching Britain from America. James had lost a quarter of a million pounds guaranteed income and more importantly his largest gang of thieves operating in the states were arrested. Perhaps he should move into another criminal area – murder or assassination maybe. How might Sherlock try to stop that?

"… I have even compared John's file with your own to see if I can find any overlaps …" Mycroft was still talking about his brother (really did anyone in this household talk about anything else?). Jim smirked at his own wit, facing the screen to avoid Mycroft seeing.

John was sitting back in the chair reading Sherlock's file as the teenager was asleep again. Jim loved watching the boy like that. He was so open unlike when he was awake. Jim had taken to imagining what he was dreaming about based on his facial expressions. Most of them involved himself of course like right now the boys hands twitched and his whole face was lit up in satisfaction – Jim imagined the boy was dreaming about strangling him.

It had occurred to the criminal mastermind early on that if he didn't murder Sherlock the boy would probably kill him. Thoughts like these didn't worry him, in fact part of him welcomed the challenge – in the future of course he had far too much to do to be killed now. He didn't want the hassle of offspring and looked to Sherlock as a strange sort of progeny – could he turn the young boy evil? James thought he would have fun trying. And if he succeeded . . . well the world would be theirs!

"We must move on from my brother now Jim there is work to be done after all," Jim rolled his eyes before turning back to his 'boss'.

"Yes sir,"

"Now then have you seen that file I put together about my suspicions of a criminal gang responsible for that bombing in Kookynie?"

'Yes sir I took it to find out what you think you know about MY true job' Jim could barely stop the words spilling over his lips and quickly said,

"Yes sir, it's here, do you think MI5 will give it any attention?"

The first time Mycroft had spoken to Jim about his suspicions of a shadowy criminal responsible for a high proportion of illegal goings-on Jim had been hard-pressed to avoid panicking. He soon realised Mycroft only had the vaguest of evidence and he could use the man's investigation to follow where any loose threads of his empire were unravelled.

"I doubt it I need more proof!" Jim delighted to hear the real frustrations of a man who wanted to do the right thing. Mycroft was a realist who bemoaned the wishy-washy free speech, civil liberties brigade that he saw as interfering in the task of protecting the citizens of his country. He was not above sacrificing a few principles for lives. To that end Jim could respect him and since he had started working for the younger Holmes Moriarty questioned whether this Holmes son was his true opponent and Sherlock merely a prize.

Mycroft stood and picked up the thin report,

"I must go then," Mycroft paused looking once more at the screen on his brother,

"Will you stay and keep an eye on Doctor Watson?" Jim would much rather go with Mycroft and hear him try to convince the government Moriarty's organisation was real but he knew Mycroft had surveillance so he could watch and react (laugh) without restraint.

"Of course sir," Jim put a question in his reply,

"There is nothing in John's file to suggest he would take advantage of Sherlock but . . ." Mycroft trialled off,

"I'll stay right here and double check sir," Jim waited until Mycroft had left before chuckling,

"Sir you make it too easy!" he mocked.

All he needed to do was make it look like John posed a threat to Sherlock and Mycroft would take care of him – probably in a very painful way. He wondered if he could make it clear to John who was pulling Mycroft's strings.

Jim moved to Mycroft's still warm seat, put his feet on the desk and stared at Sherlock's sleeping face, plotting.

WC – 2073

This might be it for a while.

Thanks for reading this far and please bear with me while I figure out where this story is going.


	7. John, Miranda and Sherlock

Chapter Seven

More John, Miranda and Sherlock

Sherlock had fallen asleep while eating so John had collected up the (almost full) crisp packet and sat back down at the desk. He studied Sherlock's sleeping features for a while before looking around the room again. A door at the back of the room led to an en-suite bathroom, Lady Holmes had said each of the family bedrooms had one. John slowly got to his feet, limped over and opened the white painted door. Inside were the remains of what had once been a very stylish bathroom; marble walls and floor, designer facilities including an oversized walk-in shower. Dark, dirty bubbles coated that now, slimy green … something oozed in the sink, the toilet lid was cracked and the entire room sank of bleach though from the layer of dust John didn't know what that was supposed to have cleaned. He backed out quickly.

There was another knock on the door and he hurried to it glancing at Sherlock to make sure the noise hadn't woken him,

"Doctor Watson I thought I would show you to your room," it was Miranda again,

"Thank you but is there a bathroom I could visit first?" John checked his still sleeping charge before following the maid out into the hallway shutting the door behind him,

"Your room has an en-suite," she smiled,

"Really?"

"Mister Mycroft and his parents thought you should have the room next to Sherlock's. Its right here," she pointed to the door next to Sherlock's 'toy' room.

"Oh thank you," once inside the door John couldn't help but look around it for a security camera.

"Is something wrong?"

"Looking for the camera," John answered curtly,

"There aren't any in the bedrooms, Mycroft only put one in Sherlock's room last year after he . . ." Miranda bit her lip,

"After he what?" At John's question Miranda peered across the hall into Sherlock bedroom. She entered John's room and closed his door,

"He snuck a diplomat's son and a serving girl into his room,"

"What for?"

"They were err getting to know each other a…and Sherlock wanted to watch,"

"Watch?"

"He was curious,"

"Curious?" John knew he sounded like a parrot but he was so surprised he didn't care

Miranda just shrugged,

"Ok and Mycroft didn't approve?"

"The guy was drunk and both he and the girl were more … interested in Mister Sherlock than he was expecting,"

"Was Sherlock ok?"

"Of course not Lady Holmes wondered in just as he realised they actually wanted to …" Miranda had gone entirely red by that point and was stuttering badly,

"Ok I get it; he's a teenager. I still don't think the cameras are ok though,"

"Mister Mycroft can be scary but he means well and he loves his brother,"

"Has a funny way of showing it," John muttered.

"Mister Sherlock is a difficult boy and takes up a lot of Mister Mycroft's attention. James tries to help but Sherlock doesn't seem to like him very much anymore,"

"Why are you surprised just today he was handcuffing him to his bed!" John spoke with a quiet fierceness that surprised Miranda and she became defensive,

"For his own protection!"

When John shook his head and went to argue Miranda continued scornfully,

"I doubt you'll last a week before you're doing the same thing – he's spooky and always trying to get good people in trouble."

John stared at the maid with shock and sudden dislike.

"I couldn't say it in front of mister Sherlock or his parents but no money is worth trying to help that kid,"

"That's an unbelievable thing to say about a child,"

"He's not a normal kid though is he? And I say it to all his tutors and most of them, like you, vow to stay – 'he can't be that bad' they all say – funny that none of them are still here. I'd suggest you stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

"…"

"James is always saying … Doctor Watson if you value your heart and happiness you'll leave,"

"My heart?"

"He likes to mess with nice people like you, like I said get you in trouble. Life's just one big game to him and the struggles of us ordinary folk are insignificant. How long before he's telling his brother lies about you I wonder,"

"Lies?"

"'He told me to try that heroin', she let the cat in my room even though I'm allergic to them', 'he murdered our maid', 'she doesn't know Latin', 'he's a criminal' … I could go on,"

"So he didn't always tell the truth as a child . . . "

"That last one was just last week."

John looked vaguely worried but continued his defence of his patient anyway,

"It doesn't seem like anyone believes him so why should I worry?"

Miranda groaned,

"Arr I'm just trying to do you a favour!" then huffed as she left.

John wondered slowly over to the double bed where his suitcase and laptop bag had been carefully placed. He pondered the maids' warnings as he gazed around the room.

It was the same size as Sherlock's but everything else was completely different. Where the furniture in Sherlock's room had been damaged, dirty and dark, John's was light and neat and tidy. John's room had the bed, a desk and the en-suite as well as a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, two bedside tables, four wall shelves holding a few ornaments and a mirror and painting hung on the wall next to each other. The window in Sherlock's room was covered with a thick dark curtain while the curtains covering John's were light and decorated. Sherlock's room almost had a derelict feel to it whereas John's was clearly well looked after. The contrast between the two rooms was startling but hardly the strangest thing about the Holmes household. John resolved to ask Sherlock about it when the teen was better then pushed this puzzle to the back of his mind.

After visiting the bathroom John collected his laptop and returned to sit at Sherlock's desk. The teen was still sleeping and John studied his face his thoughts returning to the conversation with Miranda again,

"Curious?" he questioned and the sound of his voice startled him slightly. He picked up the first book his hand landed found and opened it without looking to see what it was. Most boys were curious about sex … they just didn't usually want to watch a couple in front of them. John thought the young teen and the situation he got himself into the previous year was very distressing. Thinking about it made him fell awkward so he forced himself to forget it and just focus on whatever book he'd grabbed. He nearly dropped it in shock when it turned out to be an in depth and very graphic investigation into bullet wounds.

"Are you going to have another flashback?" Sherlock's interested voice startled John further,

"Huh! Oh … no … Sherlock why do you even have this?"

"It contains some very interesting experiments conducted at the Tennessee Anthropological Research Faculty which I'm going to need to know. In particular the . . . "

"The body farm?"

"You've heard of it?"

"I'm a doctor of course I have but you haven't explained why you want to know about the effects of bullets on decomposing bodies?"

"For when I'm a consulting detective,"

"…"

"I made the job up myself – I'll be the only one. The police will consult me when they need help. I'll never get bored!"

"The police don't consult anyone … why not just become a policeman?"

"God no they're all so stupid – that's why they'll come to me."

John blinked at the critical statement,

"… That's an incredibly harsh assumption."

"No it's not,"

"You have conclusive proof that every police officer everywhere is stupid?"

"Every one I've ever met is," Sherlock was staring up at his ceiling and John was suddenly struck with worry,

"Sherlock … when did you spoken to the police?" he got off the chair and stood at the end of Sherlock's bed looking down anxiously at the teenager.

Down in Mycroft's office, James Moriarty swung his legs of the desk and leant forward, watching the screen intently . . .

WC 1383


	8. More John & Sherlock

Chapter 8

Sherlock studied John's face for a long moment,

"You look worried … about me?"

"I am,"

"Why?"

"I've read your medical history for a start,"

"And you're still here but then you do love a challenge … or is it more than that?"

"I don't know what you . . . "

"Come now John – we all know you're brave and smart – a doctor; patriotic and honourable serving in the army how could you not be. Tolerant too: with an out and by all accounts openly proud lesbian sister. Her drinking problem coupled with you joining the army so young and no mention of any family all point to a troubled childhood."

"But there's something else . . ." Sherlock stared intently at John making him uncomfortable.

"You seem to know enough about me," John said wondering if Mycroft had been speaking to him,

"I'm missing something … something important,"

John was stood almost to attention, staring into the wall above Sherlock until Sherlock jerked forward and tried to sit up,

"Of … ow … course,"

John grabbed his shoulders and gently lowered him back into his pillow. All the while Sherlock was talking,

"I should have seen it in the hospital. Something happened when you got injured. You feel guilty about something. I should have seen it! Guilt is causing you to exaggerate your injuries probably even punish yourself. That's why you limp when you walk but easily stand to attention. That's also why you're here babysitting me. Even a sentimental fool like you wouldn't suffer my company just to help a sister you don't much like."

There were so many things wrong (and right) with Sherlock's conclusion John could only stare down at his earnest eyes. Possible responses fluttered around his brain and were lost as others formed.

Down in Mycroft's office James Moriarty laughed out loud. He thought Sherlock's speech was deliciously self-deprecating and vulnerable; all necessary ingredients for a malleable Sherlock. Putting his feet back on the desk he relaxed now he knew Sherlock wouldn't risk warning John about his true career. He laughed aloud again as he reflected how easy it was to manipulate people; even intellectuals like Sherlock and Mycroft. And weren't they just the best to control: challenging like no others but still not too taxing for his own greater mind. Sherlock used to strut all over the place – a precocious, outspoken brat but now he cowered in his room and hid behind his computer: using drugs to escape the fear of Moriarty.

As for Mycroft … when Jim decided on a whim he wanted to intrude further on Sherlock's actions less than a week later Mycroft had put cameras in his brothers' bedroom; A quick talk to mummy Holmes about Sherlock never meeting boys his own age and a spoilt teen gets an invite to a consular gathering. A word in his ear on the night about a free spirit serving girl and Sherlock's curiosity would do the rest. Of course Moriarty wasn't going to allow them to touch Sherlock – a broken teenager was no use to him. A murmur of concern to mummy Holmes and she was racing to the rescue.

"You're quite extraordinary … I did make a mistake while in Afghanistan … several actually. And one did cause these injuries. I do feel g…guilty and I have a need to help my sister but me being here, helping you isn't some sort of punishment I'm inflecting on myself."

"No of course not how silly of me …" Sherlock cleared his throat then hurried on,

"Could you pass me a book, I'm bored just lying here,"

"We're talking Sherlock,"

"Yes and it's boring me so if you don't want me getting up . . ."

"Here knock your … enjoy,"

"You don't have to censer your words from me John … I don't have anything to knock myself out with," Sherlock grinned,

"I'm tempted to tell you to use the wall but I'm afraid you actually might," John said seriously,

"I'm not a masochist John," Sherlock stopped smiling and scowled,

"Could have fooled me," John silenced Sherlock's attempted protests by continuing,

"Read your medical file remember?"

"I'm fairly sure it doesn't say anything about hurting myself,"

"Taking drugs, smoking, risking your life is close enough,"

"H'um," Sherlock ignored him turning instead to the book John had passed to him. John watched him for a moment before shaking his head and after grabbing a book for himself he sat back down on the desk chair.

Despite all Mycrofts' government connections to get the best security Moriarty had easily found someone able to hack the video feed straight to Moriarty's personal computer. This meant that he didn't need to wait for Mycroft's permission to spy on his brother. It also meant when he was asked to do so by Mycroft he didn't need to stay in the elder brother's office. Unfortunately Miranda caught him one night but always quick on his feet Moriarty had spun a tail of worry and the silly girl been extra appreciative that night.

Moriarty's phone rang … his official one (the one he used for his real job was on vibrate).

'Mycroft Calling'

"Yes Sir,"

"James … is everything alright?"

"Your brother is fine sir,"

"You know me too well … my assistant is coming over for dinner could you let Mrs Hudson know?"

"Of course sir,"

"Thank you James see you later … no Benjamin the American . . ." Mycroft's voice faded out. Moriarty pondered the phone call while keeping one eye on Sherlock and John ignore each other.

Mycroft trusted Moriarty with a lot of things he really shouldn't (his brother for example) but he took his oath to his country very seriously and didn't discuss everything with him. That is not to say Moriarty didn't know any of his secrets. Or that he couldn't deduce some. Anthea coming to dinner wasn't unusual but it usually preceded a crisis and there were a lot of opportunities for a man like Moriarty in predicting those.

After half an hour Moriarty had made a mental list of twenty-three possibilities (ranked in probability order) and decided on profitable actions for each. After checking Sherlock and John and seeing them in exactly the same positions Moriarty left to find the stupid housekeeper to tell her about their guest.

Three minutes after Moriarty stopped watching them, John suddenly turned to Sherlock,

"Miranda explained why your brother put cameras in your bedroom."

"Oh?"

"She also said in a couple of weeks I'll be wanting to leave,"

"Did she?"

Sherlock sounded non-committal but he wasn't looking at John so the doctor couldn't judge the effect of his words,

"She called you a liar,"

Sherlock flinched but otherwise didn't react … at all.

"Are you?"

"Another stupid question John,"

"My favourite kind," John replied easily and Sherlock sighed realising John was not going to give up without some kind of answer,

"Everyone lies sometimes,"

John thought back about what Miranda had said … 'he's a criminal'. She had sounded so personally scandalised the 'he' could only be referring to her boyfriend the butler James. John didn't make snap judgements about people but he had taken an instant disliking to the man and he had learnt to trust his instincts (for the most part).

"Were you lying when you called James a criminal?" Sherlock flinched again at the question and looked past John to where the camera hung on the wall. As he answered coolly he turned to look John in the eye,

"Mycroft wouldn't have employed him if he thought he was a criminal,"

"That's not what I asked,"

"He's never been arrested," Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his bed,

"Still not what I a . . . "

"You're infuriating … persistent … like a dog with a bone …" Sherlock pressed himself back into his bed, squeezed his eyes closed and tensed as he rambled,

"Sherlock … hey … hey it's ok … relax that's got to be hurting … Sherlock, its ok," John jumped to his feet and moved closer to Sherlock's bedside but he didn't try and reach out,

"It's this drug John … it makes it so … hard to think," Sherlock muttered still taunt with tension. He opened his eyes like they were stuck together and gazed up at John through the narrowest of gaps,

"You don't have to think now, ok? … Are you hungry?" As Sherlock registered the question and change in topic he relaxed; seeming to grow confident and become bigger and stronger … well a little less small anyway.

"No … maybe a little … what time is it?"

John looked at his watch and was surprised to see it was nearly five. When he told Sherlock the teen frowned,

"Could I have some more crisps?" he asked tentatively,

"Sure … um …" John had knocked the open crisp packet onto the floor when he got up.

"I'll go up to the kitchen and get you another pack, what's your favourite?"

"I don't know … any will do,"

"Alright then, stay in bed yeah?"

"I promise," Sherlock sounded sincere but John hurried anyway.

Keeping an eye on his door Sherlock pulled a laptop out from under his bed covers and was soon typing away at it. He knew Mycroft well enough to guess today's password. Pulling up the security log he deleted the last ten minutes. If Moriarty had seen it John was already in trouble but if there was a chance he hadn't Sherlock wasn't going to miss it.

Sitting back Sherlock took a moment to analyse how he felt. The drugs were still making it hard to concentrate but if he focused he could keep his mind on track; back was nicely numb, head ached, eyes were dry and scratchy, arms and hands were clammy and yes he was defiantly hungry … what a new and interesting sensation.

Before Sherlock could properly examine the feeling, something popped up on his screen. Despite being a self-taught computer hack he had taken to it fairly well: he couldn't get into any of Mycroft's government files (and yes he had tried), but he had set up internet monitoring programmes coded to find key words used by Moriarty's organisation. It seemed as though Moriarty was having a package sent from Cape Verde, Africa to Santa Rosa, Argentina. A few clicks and Sherlock smirked as he had the package re-routed to one Sergeant Lestrade, Scotland Yard, London. He pondered what it could be for a minute but then his eyes blurred and his head ached and he soon gave up. Instead he remembered his first and so far only meeting seven days ago with the Sergeant.

The policeman had found him and kept him company until the ambulance arrived. Sherlock hadn't been able to focus on him properly but he'd felt warmth and comfort and that was enough for him to take an interest (he supposed that was why he had taken notice of John). Mycroft had keep away any police since then that might have wanted to take his statement so Sherlock didn't know if the man truly cared or if he was just doing his job. Sherlock knew Moriarty had spies everywhere, including the police … what if Lestrade worked for him? Now that wasn't a happy thought

Before Sherlock could get too worked up about that idea he heard the lift ding and hurried put his computer back under the covers. Mycroft only barely tolerated him having a computer he would not approve of him using it while injured and Sherlock wasn't going to risk John feeling the same way.

"You're kitchen is filled with all my favourite foods." John said opening the door with his back and carrying a tray.

"And you've brought it all to show me?" Sherlock questioned with a frown looking at all the food John had piled onto a rather large tray; four bags of crisps, two cheese sandwiches, two apples, two bananas, two mars bars, two cups of tea and two large slices of steaming apple pie.

"Miranda was gone but your house keeper was there and when she heard you were hungry she insisted."

"Of course she did,"

"Let's start with the hot stuff shall we?"

"I don't like apple pie,"

"Great more for me … what crisps did you want?"

"I don't know," Sherlock was wrong-footed by John's easy acceptance to his refusal and felt strangely helpless being faced with all that food and choices,

"Ready Salted, Salt and Vinegar, Chicken or Cheese and Onion?"

"Whatever one you don't want,"

"Sherlock …"

"I don't really know,"

"Ok how about I put them all in a bowl and we can help ourselves?"

"Fine,"

"Alright here," John put the tray on the desk and grabbed a blank piece of paper; he ripped it half way through the shorter side, formed a cone shape and then stuck it together with tape. He handed it to Sherlock, opened the four packs of crisps and poured each of them in.

"Clever," Sherlock commented,

"I have my moments," John smiled as he sat back down, quickly tucking into his apple pie.

"'um," John quietly murmured in appreciation.

Sherlock slowly ate a crisp watching him with wide eyes,

"Y'um … oh," The genius would have picked up the doctors obvious exaggerations if he had been able to properly focus.

"Can't b…yum…believe you don't like this Sherloc…" he trailed off with a groan,

Sherlock licked salty lips and looked down at his crisps then over at where his portion of pie sat on the tray: steam still rising from it.

"Perhaps …"

"…" John hid a smirk as Sherlock leaned ever-so-slightly forward,

"Perhaps I'd like it now … taste buds change over time after all,"

"They do," Sherlock missed John's knowing grin as the doctor got up to collect it,

"Let me know if you still don't like it I'll be happy for some more," Sherlock put the paper bowl against his leg and took the plate of pie slowly. Something about John's words twitched a brain cell,

"Mrs Hudson would no doubt offer you more . . ." he said as a thought half-formed in his head but his stomach suddenly struck and rumbled: the smell right under his nose overriding his brilliance for possibly the first time in years.

"Oh!" he exclaimed after his first bite.

"Slow down Sherlock no need to inhale . . . that's disgusting!" the pie was demolished in four very large bites. Sherlock smiled at John before swallowing the last bit. The good doctor was obviously forgetting how he used to eat (and that Harry used to say the same thing to him).

Sherlock started picking at the crisps as John turned back to his own (Very Nice) pie.

"Ooooh salty," Sherlock said happily licking his fingers. To this bad habit John merely smiled fondly.

"Yuck what flavour is this one?" Sherlock asked holding a half-eaten crisp out to John, who rolled his eyes as he took and smelt it,

"Cheese and Onion,"

"Don't like those ones,"

The pair suddenly realised the flaw in mixing them all together,

"Oh … sorry Sherlock I'll go get you another pack if you . . ."

"Don't bother John I can smell the difference,"

"If you're sure?"

"Quite certain,"

"Ok then,"

For a little while the only sound in a comfortable silence was munching. Sherlock was lying back against three large pillows with his eyes closed; picking a crisp from the cone and after smelling either ate or dropped it on the floor. John was slowly finishing his portion of pie. When he was done he slowly got to his feet and picked up the original overturned crisp packet. Then he shuffled over to the bedside and started picking up the mess by its side.

"Are you tidying up after me?" Sherlock asked without opening his eyes,

"Seems someone has too,"

"We have a maid and house keeper to do that,"

John frowned but didn't answer,

"John?"

Still the doctor said nothing,

"Do you disapprove?" Sherlock finally opened his eyes to look at John,

"Does it matter if I do?"

"Not really,"

"Guess you asked a stupid question then," Sherlock frowned at his tone,

"I don't think I like that," he said without thinking,

"What?"

"Don't know … ignore me I'm tired," Sherlock closed his eyes again,

"Sleep then,"

"Mycroft's drugs must be wearing off,"

"Good."

"I agree … harder to sleep though,"

"Try to stop talking,"

"Something is on my mind . . ."

John was fairly sure something was always on Sherlock's mind,

"Something . . . Oh you didn't eat everything,"

"Mrs Hudson told me your parents expect me at dinner tonight apparently Mycroft and a guest will be there,"

"A guest?"

"Someone he works with,"

"Oh Anthea … wonder what ... the cr … crisis is … this ... time . . ." Sherlock didn't have time to think about it though as he drifted into sleep. John finished collecting the crisps and put then in what he thought was a bin. Sitting back down he felt nervous about dining with Mycroft but vowed not to act it.

Two hours later he forgot about being nervous as Mycroft's assistant joined him at the very fancy diner table.

WC – 2,896


	9. Dinner Time

Chapter 9

Dinner Time

John had tried to join Mrs Hudson in the kitchen to offer his help but she had shooed him into the dining room where he sat alone for almost five minutes. He had nervously counted three sets of knives and forks and five different spoons and just as he was beginning to think this was some sort of joke a young woman had meandered into the room doing something on her phone. She completely ignored him (even after he had cleared his throat to let her know he was there).

"Err hello," he tried,

"… Hello," she replied without looking up,

"I'm John … Doctor John Watson,"

"I know,"

"…" John fumbled unsure of what to say next,

"Err who are you?"

"I work for Lord Holmes,"

"Oh …" John had been expecting another man like Moriarty or older not a young attractive woman and was quite lost for words.

"That must be … nice?"

"Yes it is,"

John was sure the woman wasn't listening to him at all which was quite a change from his old encounters with woman. It was not the first conversation with a woman since he had returned from his last disastrous tour in Afghanistan but it was the first time he had felt a spark of attraction. The retired soldier made a promise with himself then and there to get back to his old confident ladies-man self and put the horrors of that tour behind him.

"Ah John you made it," Lady Holmes brushed past him with barely a glance,

"Of course Lady Holmes," John wondered if perhaps he wasn't really welcome and considered making an excuse to leave,

"Good, good, did everything go ok today with Sherlock?" the rich eccentric lady sat down and waved him to a chair like she was a judge holding court.

'A progress report' John thought,

"Yes, very well actually," John's statement was enough to garner the attention of both women (for a few heartbeats anyway).

"Mrs Hudson said you got him to eat?" piercing eyes seem to stare straight through him,

"Yes Ma'am, just some crisps … and a piece of pie,"

"… Pie . . . really?"

"Err yes,"

"Wonderful, really good to hear," Lady Holmes smiled a genuine smile at John before turning to the other occupant in the room,

"Hello dear … where did Mycroft wonder off to?"

"He is talking to James … I think he wanted to invite him and Miranda to the table," John failed to hide his surprise as Lady Holmes' smile widened,

"Good, good those two … usually too busy to eat,"

"Evening mother," Mycroft glided into the room, followed immediately by Lord Holmes,

"Are James and Miranda joining us?"

"Yes in just a minute,"

"I see," all three wore identical smirks and John cringed. Mycroft's assistant didn't notice; still focused on her phone,

"Is Sherlock sleeping?" Lord Holmes asked John as they arranged themselves around the majestic table; Lord Charles was at the head of the table, Lady Rose was to his right with Mycroft on his left. John sat next to Lady Holmes opposite Mycroft's assistant (who was next to Mycroft).

"Yes sir, for a couple of hours now,"

"Really?" Mycroft looked surprised and glanced at his assistant, who fiddled with her phone and then also nodded,

"Yes … sir," John replied wondering if she could actually see the security feed on her phone. Mycroft laughed at the title,

"Please John call me Mycroft,"

"Yes … Mycroft," neither were said with any respect but everyone ignored it.

"Sir?" Mycroft took his assistants phone as she held it out to him. She was frowning and after looking at whatever she was showing him he was too. John fought the urge to lean over and see what was so engrossing.

"Something wrong son?"

"Possibly, I will need to get back to you on that," as he spoke Mycroft handed the phone back and John was surprised (and a concerned) to see the two examining him. John let out a breath slowly; this job was making him paranoid. When James and Miranda entered he sat next to Mycroft's assistant and she sat next to John. Moriarty noted the tension with interest.

John caught Anthea's eyes and smiled, she really was very attractive, he thought, not realising (or caring) that anyone looking at him would recognise the lust in his eyes. Anthea smiled a bit of a flirtatious smirk (or so it seemed to him) before turning back to Mycroft. Miranda sent a venomous look his way that only James saw; he smiled; sure he could use this somehow.

"Lovely," Lady Holmes said smiling happily in contrast to how everyone else felt. A very awkward silence followed and stretched until Mrs Hudson entered the room almost three minutes later,

The housekeeper was pushing a serving trolley filled with small plates. Some kind of posh paste on crackers John guessed. As she walked carefully round the table placing each plate John had to restrain himself from getting up to help.

"Mycroft I hope you're not working too hard?" Lady Holmes questioned,

"No mother I have people to do all the hard work for me," everyone laughed except for John who thought that was probably true.

"And what do we call you today dear?" Lady Mycroft asked Mycroft's assistant,

John blinked in surprise,

"Hum … oh today Anthea."

"Anthea … good choice … so is my son still treating you alright?" Mrs Hudson finally placed the last plate in front of Miranda and after slowly collecting her trolley she left.

"Always," Anthea finally put down her mobile and glanced around the table.

"Glad to hear it,"

John waited to see what cutlery everyone else used and was pleased when Lord Holmes used his hands. Although there was not the same awkward silence as before talk at the table was limited to; secretive mutterings between Mycroft and Anthea, familiar chatter between the three Holmes' and seductive looks and laughs across the table between James and Miranda.

Exactly two minutes after the last person (Anthea) finished eating Mrs Hudson entered the dining room again this time with an empty trolley to collect the empty plates. Precisely five minutes after that she returned with fourteen plates. On the smaller plate was some kind of side salad with leafy, string greens well-presented around some kind of seed and sauce middle. The main included grilled meats and vegetables on skewers with another sweet-smelling sauce dribbled artistically over it.

"Mrs Hudson has prepared a lovely chocolate cake tonight so leave some space," Lady Holmes said cheerily to everyone.

Mrs Hudson strolled in with the trolley once again as everyone was finishing. John would have been impressed by her timing but he had seen the familiar sight of a camera blinking away. Mycroft had watched him look for it and the two men shared a look until Lady Holmes interrupted with a question for John.

"Doctor Watson, is your accommodation suitable?"

"More than, Lady Holmes,"

"Good, good," and that was the only conversation to involve the doctor for the entire dinner however John found the delicious food more than made up for being ignored. When Mrs Hudson arrived to take the dinner plates away she handed out a glass of water to everyone. There was a pause for chatter: Miranda had moved to an empty seat next to James and they carried on their own hushed conversations and Mycroft changed between guarded murmurings with Anthea and family pleasantries with his parents.

Several times John was caught staring at Anthea by various people and each had a different reaction; Miranda clearly disapproved, Lord Holmes didn't care and Lady Holmes was delighted; Anthea thought it was sweet and Mycroft was amused.

After dessert Lord Holmes (the elder) pulled out two cigars from an elaborately decorated sideboard but before he could sit back down again Lady Holmes cleared her throat;

"Ah yes Doctor Watson, James would you like one?" he said passing one to Mycroft and standing again,

"No thank you sir,"

"Perhaps just this once sir,"

"Come father we should go out onto the roof garden and leave mother in peace," the two Holmes men left with James between them,

Miranda huffed as Anthea went back to her phone.

"I'm sorry my dear I just can't stand the smell," Lady Holmes said to the young woman,

"Oh no ma'am I know I wasn't … I mean I didn't …"

"Calm down Miranda,"

"Yes ma'am," the maid looked meekly into her lap and Lady Holmes turned her attention to her sons' assistant,

"Anthea?"

"Yes ma'am?" John couldn't believe it as the young woman answered with her attention still on her phone,

"If my son can afford five minutes away from whatever the current crisis is, for a smoke, then you can give us your full attention for the same length of time, understand?" Anthea bit her lip, clearly wanting to say something to refute that but merely nodded instead.

"Now Mrs Hudson will be along shortly with a cup of coffee I trust we can have a nice conversation until then?"

"Yes Ma'am,"

"Of course Lady Holmes,"

John said nothing and was beginning to feel a little out of place.

"Perhaps I should go check on Sherlock," John said standing slowly,

"No need to go all that way, Anthea can check the security feeds on her phone," John blinked rapidly, twice and then bit the inside of his cheek to keep from sharing what he thought of that. Lady Holmes was watching his reactions closely. When John noticed he tried (but failed) to not glare at her until she looked away.

"He's still asleep," Anthea said not appearing to notice any tension.

"Astounding," Lady Holmes said with a side-long look at the doctor who caught her gaze and held it with barely a hint of 'told-you-so'.

Anthea seemed to have decided Lady Holmes' request was cause to go back to whatever it was she had been doing on her phone.

"Coffee!" Mrs Hudson called as she entered the room once again with a trolley full of goodies.

Thoroughly fed up with the evening John crossed the room to help her. Each cup of fine china rested on a matching plate coloured in a light pink decorated with deep coloured flowers. A single biscuit lay alongside each and there was a larger plate in the middle of the tray with seven mint chocolates creating a circle. To complete the picture of aristocratic dining a milk jug sat alongside a matching sugar bowl.

John looked over at Anthea and this time Mrs Hudson was the one to see. The old lady smiled and plotted quickly,

"Take that one over to the young lady," she said handing a cup to John. As he walked over to Anthea the old lady called Miranda over and handed her a cup to pass to Lady Holmes,

"Was everything alright with dinner?" she said, drawing the two into a conversation across the room from where John was attempting to gain Anthea's attention,

"I brought you some coffee," he said finally waving it near her nose,

"Thanks," she said but gave no indication she planned to take it from him,

"So … do you come round for dinner a lot?" John asked and finally put the cup on the table near her,

"Yes,"

"Do you get much time off?"

"Oh yes lots," she looked up at him with a smile,

"Would you like to have dinner with me some time … alone I mean?" John tried to sound confident but by the amused look on Anthea's face he feared he had not succeeded,

"Perhaps,"

Throughout the conversation she had spent more time than not looking at her phone, so he asked a little exasperated,

"Would you leave your phone at home?"

"No," she laughed a little as she answered and John was struck by the way her eyes lit up,

"Anthea isn't your real name is it?"

"No,"

"Why . . . "

"Doctor Watson?" Miranda appeared suddenly along side the two of them,

"Yes?"

"Did you want to help me get some food ready for Sherlock since you were so successful in getting him to eat earlier?" there was a bite to the young woman's words that John didn't understand but he mentally shrugged, too happy with his conversation with Anthea.

When James wondered into the kitchen an hour later Mrs Hudson had done all the washing and retired to her comfortable room for the night and Miranda was drying stacks of plates. James sat on top of a counter, watching and waiting. He knew it wouldn't long … Miranda and Mrs Hudson were terrible gossips:

"Do you need any help?" he offered to jump start the conversation,

"No thank you love, Mrs Hudson works as hard as she interferes,"

"What do …"

"Didn't you see her? Pushing that doctor towards … Anthea … not that he needed any help all over her he was!"

"Aren't you over-reacting?" James spoke slowly letting ideas flutter around his brain,

"No! It was grotesque and right with Lord Mycroft there."

"You still think the two of them are a couple then?" James was barely paying attention any more talking with only a fraction of his brain,

"Of course all those late nights, working together in Mister Mycroft's office – you've seen them together,"

"Not like that," the very thought pulled his attention and he shuddered,

"Oh my poor James what a sight that would be,"

"I would have to quit … perhaps our new doctor could take my place," he said slyly the beginning of a plan forming,

"Don't say that! What nonsense! He could never be diplomatic did you see him earlier – glaring at poor Mister Mycroft."

"As if I could leave you!" saying that turned James' stomach but he was rewarded as Miranda crossed the kitchen, stood between his legs and rubbed her body against his,

"You say the sweetest things," she whispered seductively but then crossed back to her pile of drying and continued talking,

"He doesn't understand this place at all – he can't see Mister Holmes does the best he can with that … that … that tyrant Sherlock. He doesn't know what we all put up with … especially you. I told him what Sherlock was like and he just excused it away. No wonder the country is going to pot if kids never get punished for what they do!"

"Spare the rod, spoil the child?"

"Exactly, none of this leftist, wishy-washy stuff – I mean I even told him about … what Sherlock got up too … you know last year … and he just said he didn't think cameras were the answer. I lost my temper at bit. He just couldn't see you and Mycroft always try to do your best with Sherlock."

"Of course we do,"

"Exactly I told him about all the stories that boy makes up about you and his tutors and he just laughed,"

"Doesn't sound like he is the best example for Sherlock," John said managing a concerned tone and hiding his glee,

"That's a point … do you think I should tell Mycroft?"

"No … not yet, it would be a little unfair to judge the doctor so quickly," with a plan in mind James turned his attention to satisfying his body,

"Perhaps but I'm going to keep a close eye on that man,"

"I love that care so much," Moriarty muttered jumping down from the counter and stalking over to the maid. He wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled her neck,

"James!" she said laughing,

"James I'm trying to work,"

"Come to bed, that lot will dry itself soon enough,"

"Oh you bad man … trying to get me into trouble,"

"Trouble … no, bed … oh yes!" Miranda giggled and allowed herself to be pulled from the room.

John meanwhile had woke Sherlock and got him to drink a broth before the teen drifted back to sleep. The doctor then shut himself in his room. He turned on his computer and stared blankly at his blog. Finally he turned it off without adding anything and went to bed.

WC – 2,705


End file.
